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FOR HONOR’S SAKE. 


BY 


MRS. B. SIM CUNNINGHAM. 


Beheld I not 


41 


The road of duty close beside me — ^but 
One little step and once more I was in it. 

Where am I ? Whither have I been transported ? 
No road, no track behind me, but a wall 
Impenetrable, insurmountable.” 


Coleridge : The Piccolomini. 



PHILADELPHIA: 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1879. 




Copyright, 1879, by Mrs. B. Sim Cunningham. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. — Miss Hilton 

II. — Willie 

III. — A Needless Concession 

IV. — Thornmere .... 

V. — A Doubtful Case 

VI. — The Weather an Advocate 

VII. — Aunt Hepsey 
VIII. — “A Leading Man!’* 

IX. — Contradictions 

X. — St. Nicholas 

XI. — “ No one else shall take thy 

XII. — “Auld Robin Gray” . 

XIII. — In the Dust 

XIV. — “Good-by, my Love, my Love!” 

XV. — Cerise Hale 

XVI. — Azrael, the Angel of Death 

XVII. — Resurrected 
XVIII.— A New Leaf 

XIX. — ^Justified 
XX. — A Schedule 
XXI. — Emblems 
XXII. — Into Port 
CONCLUSION. — “The End of it All!” 

I* 


Place” 


PAGE 

7 

14 

24 

31 

41 

53 

67 

79 

86 

93 

104 

112 

126 

134 

149 

162 

178 

192 

201 

210 

231 

257 

279 




FOR HONOR’S SAKE 


CHAPTER 1 . 

MISS HILTON. 

** That auld capricious carlin Nature, 

She’s turned you aff a human creature.” 

Robert Burns. 

Professor Inckmann looked down the line of sur- 
prised, girlish faces with a shade more of color on his 
own, and his hand shook a little as he uneasily pulled at 
the three hairs in the brown mole on his chin, — the sole 
hirsute adornment his broad genial face boasted. 

A shade on the little Inckmann^s face ! a note of anger 
in his voice ! Even Tomboy Fannie Farronnade, the 
ringleader of all daring escapades for the past three years, 
paled and quaked in her slender No. 13 boots when his 
blue eyes, irascible and piercing, searched her own. 

Where is Miss Hilton he asked, at length. 

Signor begged you would wait for her five minutes, 
professor, — they had a difficult measure to finish,** chirped 
Fan, bravely enough, the while consulting a tiny watch at 
her belt. 

The professor turned his back upon them and looked 
out of the class-room window down the broad, busy street. 

Fan twisted her neck inimitably, taking in at one glance 
the entite class and its curiosity. 


7 


8 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


^^What does it mean?** cautiously whispered a little 
girl in black, near the foot. 

Fan articulated an elaborate sentence, unaccompanied 
by any sound, — a method peculiar to the fraternity of 
school-girls, — and then she looked over with a momentary 
qualm to where the professor stood, with drooping shoul- 
ders and vacant eyes. 

There was a sound of approaching footsteps. A little 
murmur of breathless suspense along the waiting class, then 
the door at the end of the room opened, and a girl entered 
bearing ponderous music-books. She stopped to deposit 
them upon one of the desks, and came noiselessly to her 
place at the top. Fan falling back a pace to make way for 
her. 

Professor Inckmann turned from the window, and she 
closed her text-book, over which, after the manner of 
school-girls, she had been hurriedly glancing. 

The face she lifts from her book is one that defies de- 
scription. I might tell you that the eyes are wide and 
clear and singularly thoughtful in their expression ; then 
you would never be prepared for the erratic glances they 
might flash you at the first revulsion of feeling. 

The brow is broad, somewhat lower than the usual 
brow, but with a bounteous curve downward, and the hair 
that is rolled back from it, and falls in a single heavy braid 
below the slender waist, is of that dark, rich brown, that 
painters make on canvas with burnt umber. The nose is 
straight and well-shaped, with a sensitive droop to the 
nostrils, the lips are scarlet and cleanly cut ; the chin a 
model of firmness. 

So stands Cerise Hilton, the pride and envy of Madame 
Melbourne*s ‘‘Select Seminary for Young Ladies,** yclept 
Norbourne, and the head of the graduating class for the 
year i8 — . 


MISS HILTON, 


9 


Young ladies, close your books/* 

Obedient to the simple command the books were all 
closed, and twenty pairs of wondering eyes were raised 
inquiringly. 

“ I have a question to ask each of you in turn.** 

Cerise wondered what could have power to so shadow 
the face of her best loved master. 

“ Miss Hilton, do you know by whose agency an effigy 
was conveyed across the court-yard last night and left at 
the door of the Junior Department in the Gentlemen*s 
Building ?** 

For a moment there was unmixed surprise in Miss Hil- 
ton*s eyes, then her face flushed slowly, and she gave a 
quick glance down to where Fan Farronnade stood, 
jauntily self-possessed as usual. 

“ I think you heard me. Miss Hilton,** after a pause, in 
which the young lady*s lips remained resolutely locked. 

“ Yes, professor, I heard ; but I decline to answer.** 

‘‘ I command you to answer !** 

His German blood was getting the better of him. 

But Miss Hilton shook her head regretfully, though 
firmly. 

‘‘ What could I say, professor? We school-girls own a 
code of honor, and we hold it inviolate. I cannot turn 
State*s evidence against my classmates.** 

What .other girl would have dared so much ? 

Fan Farronnade, the genuine culprit, though she was 
frightened nearly out of her original quota of senses, took 
heart of grace sufficient to pull Cerise*s apron-strings 
vehemently, in token of her unqualified approbation, and 
trod upon the next girFs toes until she winced. 

‘‘ And I am to understand from your answer that you 
were engaged in the transaction ?** 

The girl*s face crimsoned ardently this time, the hot, 

A* 


10 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


rapid flush of indignation, and the proud, scarlet lips took 
on some additional curves of hauteur, as she replied, — 
Yes, professor ; if my silence was encouraging, then 
I too took part in the transaction/^ 

The German tutor looked at her a moment doubtfully, 
then turned to the class at large with a vague sigh. 

Do you know what your little piece of fun last night 
has cost ?’* involuntarily glancing at Fan Farronnade, who 
was crimsoning guiltily behind her yellow curls. Willie 
Craighton, the little boy from Florida, was the first to 
open the door, and when the torpedoes exploded and 
that monstrous figure fell into his arms he fainted, and 
was found an hour after, by one of the servants, lying on 
the hall floor raving in delirium. He is in the infirmary 
now, ill with brain fever, and the doctor fears his life 
may pay the forfeit of your folly.** 

There was breathless silence for an instant, then Fan- 
farronnade,** as the girls persistently dubbed her, broke 
from her place in the class, and, with a great sob of grief 
and dismay, threw herself on the platform at the pro- 
fessor*s feet. 

He smiled nervously, and stooped to lift her up. 

‘‘Oh, professor! I did not mean it for anything but 
fun ! Will he die? Professor, do you think he will?** 

“ Sit up, child ! Go back to your place. If Madame 
should happen to enter I I must straighten this affair 
before the Faculty hears of it. Miss Farronnade, you 
surely know that expulsion is the penalty for trespassing 
on the college grounds.** 

“I knew, I knew! I didn*t do it myself, gracious, 
professor; it was heavy as so much lead! I gave An- 
drew a dollar to carry it over and adjust the torpedoes 
according to my directions.** 

“ Tampering with the servants. Miss Farronnade ! This 


MISS HILTON. 


II 


is even worse than I feared,’* in a thin, little voice that 
he had meant should be severe. 

‘‘But, professor, there was nothing so dreadful in that. 
Andrew has done worse things for less money, I know. 
It was all fun, — you know, you know, I never meant any- 
thing but fun, — and now you say he — will — die.” 

Fan clung to his arm, flushed, incoherent, with her 
yellow ringlets pushed back from tearful eyes. 

And the professor — well, the professor was sadly unor- 
thodox in his line. His head was big and wise and right 
enough, but his heart was tender and foolish as a woman’s, 
which was the very worst the Faculty — that august body 
of the college on the opposite square, under whose au- 
spices Madame Melbourne’s “ Select Seminary” bore such 
deserved prestige — had ever said of him. 

Fan submitted herself to quiet at last, then she turned 
to Cerise. “ What you have to do with it. Cherry?” 
she asked. 

“ I lent my silence to the ‘ transaction,’ ” she said, with 
another wave of rapid color mounting to her brow. “ I 
missed my work-basket, and saw you parleying with An- 
drew in the servants’ hall ; I half guessed some mischief 
was afoot, but took no trouble to find out what.” 

Then, as the hour was out, they were dismissed. The 
girls filed slowly out of the room, all but Cerise Hilton, 
who waited to see the door close upon the last one, then 
went up on the platform and laid a slender hand upon 
the professor’s coat-sleeve. He saw that her eyes were 
less clear than usual, for tears hung on the lashes. 

“ Professor, is he so very ill ?” 

“ I fear so, indeed.” 

“ Poor little boy ! He is so far from home, professor !” 
And now there was a shade of deprecation in the clear 
tones of her voice. “ I should like to go over occasion- 


12 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


ally. It will make no difference with my recitations. 
You know he has always been fond of me/* 

In the Saturday matinees, few and far between, when 
Madame had invited the collegians over, this little Willie 
Craighton had persistently attached himself to the train 
of Miss Hilton’s admirers, and had unflinchingly held his 
position, despite the sobriquet of “ Cherry’s baby” that 
the senior class had fastened upon him. 

Inckmann gave a queer little gasp, the rims of his eye- 
lids coloring. 

‘‘It is very good of you, my dear young lady; you 
might ask the matron’s permission.” 

Cerise knew that her German master could scarcely 
trust his tongue just then; “my child” was the tender 
epithet he was wont to bestow upon her. 

In the dormitory Miss Farronnade was surrounded by 
the subordinates, all of whom were wildly jealous of this 
haughty, correct Cerise Hilton. 

“ It was as much her fault as yours; she says so,” sug- 
gested the little girl in black. 

“It was not her fault; she said that to screen me,” 
indignantly denied Fan. 

“Miss Hilton teaches us: the wisdom of adopting a 
role, even though it be the improbable one of a saint !” 
sneered a tall, handsome blonde, who had taken no part 
in the discussion until now. 

“At least she has taught us that insinuations are dis- 
graceful, and you meant nothing kind by that remark, 
Aurelia Doyle. Cherry is no saint, but she would lay 
her head on the block for a friend !” 

The little “bluster’s” cheeks were warm. 

“You veer like a weathercock, Fanfarronnade !” 
laughed the blonde, contemptuously. 


MISS HILTON, 


13 


It is well for Miss Hilton’s sceptre that she has such 
a set of noddy birds for her subjects, or she might not 
reign so royally.” 

“Hush!” said the little girl in black, slyly pulling 
Aurelia’s apron-string, but too late, — Miss Hilton was in 
their midst, and from the composure of her face none of 
them guessed how much of the discussion had reached 
her ear. 


CHAPTER II. 


WILLIE. 

** The silly people take me for a saint/* 

aS/. Simeon Stylites. 

And who is this Cerise with the suggestive name and 
the face that defies description ? 

Do not shudder, kind reader, there are no ancestors 
to be unearthed, no genealogical trees to shake, but for 
the sake of the unities, you know, we must introduce 
our heroine properly, for fear the critics may pounce 
upon her and make away with her as summarily, and 
with as much relish, I dare say, as the robins do her 
namesakes. 

Imprimis, our Cerise is the oldest child of doting 
parents, who have sent her from her sunny Maryland 
home to this Northern seminary for the unrivalled ad- 
vantages it possesses, and for the gratification of that 
craving which was born in the girl, — a craving to eat of 
the tree of knowledge. She is fifteen now, — a woman in 
nature and habit, — ^a very child in years. If there are 
strong wayward faults in her character, there are also great 
and good impulses. Just now she is filled with serious 
longings to be of use in the world. She dreams of the 
strength of its men, the patience and sweetness of its 
women, and she has Utopian ideas of the life she will lead 
when once among them. 

It is midwinter now; the June roses will set her free 
from school discipline and thraldom. Not that she is 


14 


WILLIE, 


15 


weary of them, only, here her sphere is narrow. And 
yet this keen reaching after the prizes of the mind she 
enjoys with an eager relish. It is only when she has 
time to dream that she looks forward with such importu- 
nate delight to the future. 

Fannie Farronnade, or Fanfarronnade^^"' by her 
school-girl sobriquet, is the one warm friend of her school- 
life. They are antipodal in their natures, and for that 
very dissimilarity, perhaps, their friendship is the warmer. 

Fan does not ‘‘veer like a weathercock,** as Miss 
Doyle slightingly affirmed, but she is capricious, — a trifle 
fickle, shall I say? Whereas Cerise once resolved is a 
very Gibraltar of firmness. Fan is the ringleader of all 
mad frolic, while Cherry holds herself almost too proudly 
aloof from such undignified recreation. Fan is often 
nearer foot than head in her classes, and once, upon the 
occasion of a series of disgraceful recitations. Cerise 
came nearer to “falling out** with her friend than she 
had ever been during their five years* acquaintanceship. 
Fan had been known to receive surreptitious billets from 
the college gents, while Cerise resented their too familiar 
glances with the cold regard of her clear eyes, and the 
curl of her flexible scarlet lips. But there were many 
points of congeniality between them nevertheless, for the 
little “bluster** wore a warm, true heart in her bosom, 
and though her frolics were mad and frequent they were 
never culpable. 

Cherry was gratified by a ready permission from the 
matron to visit Willie Craighton at the infirmary. 

“I don*t know that it is the right place for you, my 
dear, but Professor Inckmann said you seemed in earnest 
about it, so I yielded.*’ 

“ Thanks ! I am so glad you do not object. It must 
be very dreary for him with only a hired nurse near. I 


i6 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


am sure if I were sick my mamma would like to know 
that some one was tenderly caring for me.** 

The matron smiled delightedly; “My dear child, if 
you were ill we should have the whole Faculty taking up 
its abode in the infirmary !** 

Cerise was winningly deferential to her elders, and the 
motherly matron loved her very tenderly. 

Little Willie was tossing and moaning when Cerise en- 
tered. The nurse recognized her though the lamp was 
dim. 

“I thought I might rest you, Elsie; Mrs. Mordant al- . 
lowed me to come. Is he better?** 

“I think not, miss; he moans always for his mother.** 
“Poor little boy!** leaning over the flushed face, and 
pushing back the hot, clinging curls. 

“Mamma! oh, my mamma!** cried the child, plaint- 
ively. “ Mamma ! oh, my head aches !** 

Cerise wept softly in her handkerchief ; the weary, 
wandering tones were more than she could bear. 

After all, there was little she could do ; then the doctor 
came in presently and summarily dismissed her. She 
went to her dormitory sad and dispirited. Fan did not 
dare to ask a question. She was in a state of terror, 
poor child, and would have given much to have known if 
Cherry thought she had anything to dread from the Fac- 
ulty ; but her friend had the habit of enforcing quietude 
by a particular manner. It may have been a selfish ex- 
action ; but Cerise lost sight of that in the satisfactory 
result. 

To-night she was baffled by the puerility of her oppor- 
tunities. Elsie had not cared to accept rest at her hands, 
the doctor had laughed at her pretensions. Perhaps you 
see in this a petty species of vanity; if it was that, it was 
also much more. She enjoyed the praise to which she 


WILLIE. 1 7 

was accustomed, to be sure, but, at the same time, she 
earnestly sought to deserve it. 

‘‘Well,*^ she said to herself, when, after having pre- 
pared her lessons for the next day, she went over to where 
Fan had cried herself to sleep, after vainly awaiting a 
word from her friend, “surely there are plenty of laurels 
to be won in the world that lies beyond these court-yards 
and class-rooms. I must be very weak when a small failure 
like this has power to sting me so. But then, one cannot 
be blamed for wanting to do all the good one can.'* 

And the flushed, tear-stained face of sleeping “ Fan- 
farronnade" carried no reproof to her friend. 

Hi ^ Hi 5(1 

It was not many days until the doctor declared the little 
sufferer out of danger. There was quite a commotion in 
the dormitory at the news. Fan danced a wonder of a 
jig in fleetness, and pulled Ada Hardt’s long plaits until 
she squealed. 

“ Look at Cerise ! See how her eyes are filling and her 
cheeks glowing !" 

It was Annie Fleet who spoke, a plain, sallow girl, who 
studied through the recreation hours and sorely envied the 
talented favorite. 

Fan turned her tiny nose contemptuously into the air. 

“I am quite as grateful as Cerise, only I have not a 
hundred phases, and so may not be as able to impress you 
with the fact. Don’t sneer at the pun, Cherry,” for Ce- 
rise’s lips were curling. 

“ I never sneer at nothing,''* she replied, playfully, and 
half ashamed that Fan’s silly speech had annoyed her. 

“Thanks, my darling!” with a sounding kiss and a 
conciliatory glance from her loving blue eyes. 

“ Don’t be hard on me, beloved ; you have done out- 
landish things in your time. Do you remember when you 
2 * 


i8 


FOR HONORS SAKE, 


put the professor’s chair leg in that hole on the platform ? 
The elegant Capriccio ! How his long legs gambolled in 
the air \ and then when he gathered himself up it was like 
the ^Alexandrine’ in our Rhetoric!” 

Peals of laughter echoed through the dormitory. 

‘‘That was before my time,” said little Ada Hardt. 
“You would not serve Inckmann so, Miss Hilton.” 

“Inckmannl I should say not,” interpolated Miss 
Doyle, with an emphasis so marked that Cherry looked 
around quickly. 

“ Of course not. There are few of us would dare to 
make fun at the expense of our German master ; he has 
won our affections too surely for that,” she said, quietly. 

“We doubt not he has won affection ; allow the 
rest of us to speak for ourselves, if you please.” 

There was no misunderstanding so direct an insinuation. 
The girls held their breath. Fan stood close by her 
friend, her eyes shooting blue lightning. For a moment 
Cerise held the blonde at bay with the steady gaze of her 
clear eyes. 

“That supposition is worthy of you, Aurelia Doyle,” 
she said, at last, very quietly, but with a keen scorn in 
her tones that made the blonde, who was affecting a care- 
less indifference, turn crimson to her light fluff of hair. 

“Girls,” — and she turned to her classmates, — “I beg 
you to decide, — is Miss Doyle ‘one of us’ ?” 

“ One of us” was the royal watchword of the school. 

“‘One of usl’ I should say not, when she dares to 
insult our leader,” cried “ Fanfarronnade.” 

“Not of us!” cried a chorus of fresh voices. Only 
Annie Fleet bit her lip and was silent. 

In the heat of passion Cherry pursued this ungenerous 
advantage. But, as you know, she had all of life’s lessons 
to learn yet. 


WILLIE, 


19 


‘‘Do you hear?’* she asked, imperiously. “I would 
have allowed your status to have remained unquestioned 
as I have all these years, but your offences have been too 
flagrant of late. You might have made me your friend, 
but you would not. I will petition Mrs. Melbourne to 
change your dormitory 

But the blonde interrupted her hotly, — 

“You will do no such thing 1 I can live without your 
favor. I believed you to be an advocate of truth in any 
shape, and it was but truth I told you. The veriest noddy 
bird in your train can see that you are mad about Inck- 
mann. As for my ‘status,^ that remains untouched. I 
have no desire to be ‘ one of you,* — a set of silly school- 
girls with a contrefait at the head. Bah ! you don’t im- 
pose upon me with your perfection !” 

But Cherry had not stayed to hear her out. She was 
half-way to the infirmary before Miss Doyle had finished 
her indignant reply. Little Willie, who was waiting for 
her, brightened visibly at her approach. 

“What is the matter?” he whispered, feebly, when she 
bent over him and took his hand. “ Your eyes burn me, 
and there is blood on your lip.” 

She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. 

“ Nothing, you acute little physiognomist, except that 
I am in a passion and have come here to scare you.” . 

He stroked her hand, reassured. But Cerise was very 
quiet. The sick child missed the gentle smiles, the ca- 
resses and loving words, which she was wont to bestow 
upon him, and which made her few visits a pleasure so 
eagerly looked for by him. Mistaken, impulsive Cerise 
was repenting her ungenerous haste. 

“It is ever so,” she sighed, — “a word and a blow! 
Oh, when shall I learn to be patient?” 

In the after-time, looking back upon that golden age, 


20 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


how oft the careless, self-put interrogative recurred to 
her ! But there was no mirror of gramarye on the 
peaceful college walls, whereon she might behold the 
years shadowed forth, — the years which were to teach 
her forbearance. 

‘‘ Won’t you tell me something, Cherry, I am so tired ?” 
murmured the little convalescent, with the vague sigh of 
weakness. 

So Cherry set about entertaining him with ingeniously- 
narrated incidents of her home-life ; of mamma, who 
carried her knitting even when she walked ; of papa, 
always up to his neck in dusty tomes ; of Lilias, bright- 
haired and womanly; of lisping Alice; and Waring, the 
man and baby of the establishment, and infinitely pre- 
cious to all concerned. 

In the midst of it they heard footsteps in the passage, 
and a low, mellowly-whistled Mary of Argyle,” gaining 
force and sweetness as the footsteps neared them. Such a 
bonny, fresh tune as it was ; suggestive of heather-bells, 
golden gorse, and the lochs and fells of the grand old 
border. 

‘‘Don’t go. Cherry, for the girl made an at- 
tempt to loosen her hand from his hold. “It is Mr. 
Hale. He never stays long; don’t go.” 

She looked up to see a handsome, boyish face framed in 
the doorway, smiling irresolutely, as if uncertain whether 
to advance or recede. 

“Won’t you ask him in. Cherry?” piped Willie’s 
weak voice. 

Cerise arose and walked across the floor in the dim 
light. 

“Willie says I must ask you in.” 

“Thanks! Philip Hale, if you will excuse me.” 

She inclined her head slightly, and went over to Willie. 


WILLIE. 


21 


must go now, darling; you have your friend with 
you. Be good and patient, and perhaps I may come again 
to-morrow.** 

But I had rather have a thousand times. Cherry 1 
Won't you stay, just a little while ? Elsie will be coming 
in with lights presently, and I shall have the whole long 
night by myself ; she sleeps so much. Please, dear, good 
Cherry!** 

The weak, wan hands were irresistible. Cherry dropped 
down at his side again. 

“Better to-night. Master Willie?** asked the new- 
comer, in tones fresh as spring and soft as a woman *s. 

Willie sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. I should get well 
soon if Cherry could come every evening and tell me nice 
stories.** 

Then a pause, in which Cherry, suddenly looking up, 
caught Philip Hale scanning her face, or as much of it 
as was visible from the shadow of her hand. He turned, 
naturally enough, to Willie when he saw that he was 
observed, and she took that opportunity to look at him 
in turn. 

A high forehead ; dark hair, straight and close ; round 
hazel eyes, frank and merry; a large, pleasant mouth; 
even, white teeth ; and a chin destitute of whiskers, with 
the suspicion of a dimple in it. He was scarcely handsome, 
though the tout ensemble was pleasing in the extreme, and 
there was a freshness and heartiness about his whole 
aspect that in itself was attractive. 

“Will you stay long in town, Mr. Philip?** asked 
Willie. 

“I do not know. I have not decided, my little man. 
I came to see my cousin, — Miss Doyle, of your class. 
Miss Hilton, — but she is so busy that I have only had 
one glimpse of her as yet.** 


22 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


‘^The grapes were delicious, Mr. Philip, and the little 
music-box. I forgot to show you. Cherry ; you will find 
it on the shelf yonder. Won’t you wind it, Mr. Philip, 
so that Cherry may hear the pretty tunes it plays?” 

But Cherry arose, decidedly this time. 

‘‘To-morrow you shall show it to me. Mr. Hale is 
very kind to bring you such nice things. Now, my little 
man, you do not mean to cry !” for Willie began to weep 
in the nervous, uncertain way peculiar to invalids. 

Cherry kissed him with trembling lips. Poor child ! 
it was lonely and dispiriting in that long, dim infirmary. 

“Suppose / stay with you to-night, Master Willie; 
what say you?” 

The fresh, strong voice stopped the child’s tears. 

“Oh, wouldn’t you mind to stay, Mr. Philip?” piped 
the weak little voice. 

Cherry’s face lifted itself from the pillows where she 
had been whispering soothing nothings into Willie’s ear, 
and Philip Hale colored up to his frank brow at the 
radiant smile she gave him. He was surprised, for she 
had chilled him with her unyielding monosyllables and 
the haughty distance of her proud eyes. 

“Mr. Philip, I don’t deserve that you should stay,” 
Willie said, shyly, when Cherry had gone and his friend 
came around to her place by his side, “ because — because 
when you came I was sorry, for fear it would drive her 
away.” 

But Mr. Philip smiled pleasantly. 

“ I don’t see how that would render you less deserving 
of any favor I might show you, my boy.” 

“And you don’t mind it?” eagerly. 

“ Not a bit.” 

Then, after a pause, “ If you only knew how nice she is ! 
Why, Mr. Philip, don’t you believe she has done me more 


WILLIE, 


23 


good than the doctor’s medicines and Elsie’s jelly 1 She 
does it all with a pat and a kiss, too. I wish you knew 
how nice it is !” And Willie wondered not a little at the 
amusement in Mr. Philip’s eyes. 

‘^Aurelia Doyle’s cousin !” said Cherry to herself just 
before she blew out her lamp that night. Well, there is 
no hint of such relationship in those brave, honest eyes !” 


CHAPTER III. 


A NEEDLESS CONCESSION. 

** * For come what will,’ she said, ‘ I had to-day.’ '* 

Jean Ingelow. 

There is so little to tell of a girl’s school-life. It is 
monotonous enough to the many ; only here and there 
do you find a mind so disposed as to find in the compe- 
tition of classes an excitement and eager delight that no 
after-time will afford. 

With the May examinations dawned a trying time for 
the little German professor. 

Have you guessed his secret ? But you cannot divine 
through brick walls and a man’s dura mater to what lies 
beyond — the thinking, suffering, acting part of the human 
system — and you don’t know how, while most of the world 
was asleep, that uncouth, great-hearted little man wore 
the weary hours of night through battling against the de- 
sire that was wasting his life, — the desire of an unrequited 
and unquenchable love. Is it strange, think you, or in- 
credible, that this should have happened? If this girl 
was twenty in spirit and habit, rarely beautiful at times, 
and a fascinating, noble creature always, is it wonderful 
that the little tutor, who has held daily intercourse with 
her for the past five years, should feel the sway of these 
attractions before the world had time to blazon them? 
Or that he should long for the exclusive possession of 
them ? He knew that his silent, suffering love was hope- 
less, as well as mad folly. He looked in the glass, and 

24 


A NEEDLESS CONCESSION. 


25 


sighed at sight of his florid face, his red hair, and the 
brown mole on his chin. He glanced down the dwarfish 
length of his stunted form and almost loathed himself for 
his ugliness. 

“ Mirabeau was not so ugly,’^ he said to himself ; ‘‘ but 
Mirabeau was great.*’ 

“ Yes, but Mirabeau was a traitor, — a liar, — a liber- 
tine !” whispered conscience; ‘‘and you are a Christian,” 
the modest conscience dared to add. 

It was a trying time for the little Inckmann. Cerise, 
the beloved pupil of his class, was winning signal honors, 
and the generous heart in his bosom was swelling with 
pure pride. “ Fan Farronnade” followed her friend about 
more untiringly than ever ; Aurelia, next in class, would 
have blurred the beauty of those clear eyes by a well- 
aimed blow had she dared. The father and mother in 
the far-off Maryland home, reading exultant, confident 
letters from their darling, looked with proud, tremulous 
smiles into each other’s faces. 

“Fortune has followed her since her birth,” was the 
father’s comment. 

“May it never forsake her!” was the humble prayer 
of the mother. 

And for Cerise. Long years after, at memory of those 
achievements, and that carelessly quaffed beverage, the 
intoxicating draught of applause, the color would mount 
anew to her cheeks, the sparkle of gratified pride to her 
eyes. It was a triumph unmixed with any drop of mor- 
tification. At that one time of her life Cerise was purely, 
proudly happy. What matter that Aurelia Doyle scowled 
upon her with a frown that boded her no good ; every 
one else was kind, caressing, admiring. “ Fan Farron- 
nade” fed her on flattery, that she meant for truest 
praise ; the professors complimented her upon her talent 

3 


B 


26 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


and versatility; Madame Melbourne wrote a letter of 
warmest approval to her parents ; Professor Inckmann 
in his unreasoning delight pulled several hairs out of the 
chocolate patch on his chin ; and Philip Hale — Willie’s 
friend, come to witness his cousin’s triumph — had paid 
her as genuine tributes as any of the rest with the undis- 
guised admiration in his frank, bright eyes. 

It was all over now. She stood on the threshold of a 
new life, and it made her a little sad to bid good-by to 
these familiar halls. 

Professor Inckmann, going into the German class-room 
on the morning when the carriages were taking the young 
ladies to the depot, surprised her weeping vehemently 
over her desk. 

My dear child !” 

‘‘ Oh, professor ! I have just realized that I shall never 
come here again, — that our lessons are ended.” 

The professor’s hand, lying on the back of her chair, 
trembled visibly. 

‘‘ My child, my best-loved pupil, I have thought of 
that often before to-day. But it should not m2ik^you sad. 
You have all the future before you, — a future happy and 
prosperous, I trust, as the past has been successful. God 
bless you and give you life’s best gifts !” 

She stood before him, but the tears were blinding her 
so that she could not see his face. 

‘‘Thanks, my dear, kind master! But I shall go 
astray without you, I fear. You have taught me more 
things than German by your unobtrusive goodness. Re- 
member,” and she laid a tender hand upon his arm, “if 
I ever do anything worth while in the life to which I am 
going, it will be from the force of your example.” 

The plain face was transfigured with “ the beauty that 
dwelt in his soul.” 


A NEEDLESS CONCESSION. 27 

My child, my little one, God bless you for those kind 
words 1 they make me almost contented with my lot/^ 

She was gone ! The door closed upon the graceful 
figure that he had so often watched down the length of 
this same lofty room, noisy then with the ring of musical 
young voices. How the silence sank into his heart ! He 
bowed his head upon her desk and groaned. 

In the hall Cerise met Aurelia Doyle. 

‘‘ ‘ Love’s Last Adieu ! ’ ” she sneered in passing, with 
a significant glance at the door of Professor Inckmann’s 
class-room. ‘‘Was the scene so lachrymose? Your eyes 
look like ferrets’.” 

Cerise colored angrily. “ Could you not let me go in 
peace?” she asked, haughtily. “Why do you hate me? 
Not that I care, but I would like to know how you have 
escaped the contagion of the school. I have been 
favorite here for years !” 

There was unparalleled effrontery in this speech. 
Cerise’s cheeks tingled in after-years at the memory of 
it. The blonde paled and her eyes gleamed like steel. 

“Would you have the truth?” 

“To be sure, else I had not asked you.” 

“ I hate you because you are so proud and superior in 
your own conceit ; because you have taken the prizes I 
have lost. But I have done with you now; henceforth, 
I trust, our paths are separate. If, contrary to my ex- 
pectation, they ever should cross, believe me I should not 
bear your usurpations as I have here !” 

Cerise laughed mockingly. “ You talk wildly. I have 
won, by my perseverance and determination, what you 
could not have appreciated had you gained. As for the 
rest, keep out of my way, for I promise you I shall take 
all that falls in my path, be it mine or another’s.” 

The girl’s better nature protested against this last, but 


28 


FOR HOFTOR^S SAKE, 


she was not prepared for the effect it had upon her foe. 
She grew so white that Cerise feared she was going to 
faint, but the color came back after an interval. She 
opened her lips as if to speak ; the words died in her 
throat. Cerise went over to her side. 

‘‘Are you suffering, Aurelia?” she asked, disarmed, — 
for it was not in her nature to stand such outbreaks un- 
moved, besides her heart upbraided her for her hasty, 
ungenerous sentence, — ^but the blonde waved her off 
wildly. 

“If that is your game,” she said, at last, the color 
coming and going like a flame in her white face, “look 
well before you pursue it, or all your lifetime you will 
regret it!” Then she fled down the hall like a hunted 
thing, and Cerise stood there a moment pondering her 
strange words. 

Down in the front hall adieux were being exchanged, 
and hand -grasps, and earnest, hearty wishes for one 
another’s success and happiness. “ Fanfarronnade” was 
to accompany Cerise as far as New York, where she was 
to stop awhile to be congratulated and made much of by 
her father and a certain highly-lauded brother — ^Jock by 
name — before she could give Cherry the visit she had 
promised her. Mr. Hale was at the carriage-step to hand 
them in. 

“ With your permission I will ride to the depot with 
you, ladies.” Cerise looked surprised ; but she accorded 
him a place by her side. 

“I had an object in asking for this privilege. Miss Hil- 
ton,” he said, when they had fairly started. 

“I suppose so,” smiled Miss Hilton, unconsciously; 
“we have an object in doing most things, Mr. Hale.” 

“I wanted to know if you would allow me to visit you 
at your home in Maryland ?” 


A NEEDLESS CONCESSION. 


29 


Fan looked up quickly, and there was a sparkle in her 
mischievous eyes, quickly suppressed at a warning glance 
from Cherry. Cerise regarded him inquiringly, then, with 
a smile of doubtful meaning, replied, — 

‘‘I don’t think I will, Mr. Hale.” 

There was nothing very terrible in a refusal so equivo- 
cal, Philip Hale thought, smiling in turn as he said, ‘‘ Will 
you'^^llow me to ask why you refuse me the favor?” 

I lTavFli^r^j;isidered why'' 
thought you were impulsive.” 

‘‘You thought right, but I weigh my impulses.” 

Then after a pause, in which Fan looked out of the 
window and coughed distressingly, — 

“ I believe it is because I do not particularly care whether 
you come or not. I make it a point never to ask for that 
which I do not particularly want.” 

How honest she was ! how singularly unlike any girl 
he had ever met ! 

But Mr. Hale was not to be daunted. 

“ May I come and try to interest you?” he urged in a 
low tone, bending to her ear. 

She colored at that. 

“I believe I could not in hospitality refuse you that; 
only, you won’t blame me if you fail in your under- 
taking?” 

“Thanks ! this is much more than I deserve.” 

Fan nudged her elbow when they had chosen their seats 
in the car, and Philip was standing patiently in the aisle 
waiting to stow their satchels in the bracket above them. 

“ Look at Aurelia in the next carriage ; what does that 
expression mean?” 

Cerise looked out in the direction of Fan’s gaze and 
met the glance of her classmate, a burning glance full of 
concentrated hatred. She thought of the frown on the 

3 * 


3 ^ 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


face of the old ruined god in ‘‘Lucille,’* around which 
the children had played, heedless that the frown was to 
follow the life of one of that little band, — follow and 
blacken and blast it ! But as the train steamed off the 
radiant, sunny smile on Philip Hale’s bright face banished 
the gloom of Aurelia’s frown. 

“I told him he might come,” she thought, “and so 
he may, but I could do just as well without his visit ; and 
what is the use of having a thing that you can do as well 
without?” 

What use indeed ! but these useless things happen oft- 
times in life, and it is not until the great iron chain is 
securely welded, beyond our power to break it, that we 
see how they form the firmest, most enduring links. 

“Nothing is insignificant,” says Seni, the astrologer, 
in Schiller’s great play, “ The Death of Wallenstein.” 

. . . “ There is nothing insignificant, 

Nothing / But yet in every earthly thing 
First and most principal is place and time.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THORNMERE. 

“Now God bless the child, father, mother, respond ! 

O Life ! O Beyond ! 

Thou art strange, thou art sweet.” 

Mrs. Browning. 

All was joy and bustle in the bright Maryland home, 
for Cherry was coming home, — Cherry, the pride, the 
darling of the house. Papa Hilton vainly tried to find 
interest in his book, stopping occasionally to sip refresh- 
ing draughts of iced lemonade, and to look up the dazzling 
turnpike, believing he heard the sound of carriage- wheels 
with every faint stir of the leaves. Mrs. Hilton bustled 
about in a flutter of excitement and maternal unrest. 
Lilias and Alice in roseate muslins and fresh curls vied 
with each other in their rapid migrations to and from the 
garden-gate. Waring tumbled head over heels among the 
verbenas in his frantic endeavors to keep pace with these 
fleet-footed and sorely-envied sisters. Nurse nodded in 
the portico, her capacious mouth affording an available 
retreat for the few gnats that audaciously ventured in, and 
Prince, the huge Newfoundland, lay with his nose between 
his paws, wrinkling his shaggy brows and eying the turn- 
pike speculatively between his naps. 

Such a sultry June afternoon ! Mrs. Hilton reluctantly 
exchanged her cool wrapper for Cherry^s favorite dress, — 
a dove-colored silk, — and tied a bow of pink ribbon at her 
collar. A sweet and dainty-looking little woman, with eyes 
very near the color of her dress, and a bloom in her cheeks 


31 


32 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


wellnigh as bright as the ribbon. You could not have traced 
a single point of resemblance between her and the impetu- 
ous, brilliant daughter she was expecting. She had just 
completed her toilet, — a little shamefaced when she saw 
how becoming it was, — when the little girls sent up a 
shout from the garden-gate, admiringly emulated by 
Master Waring. Prince gave a series of quick, joyous 
barks, and the roll of carriage-wheels apprised her that 
Cerise had arrived. Down the stairway with the fleetness 
of youth, past her husband standing in the hall-door, and 
mother and daughter were locked in each other^s arms. 
My own mamma 
My child ! my darling 

And then Cerise caught the little ones in a general em- 
brace and started up the path to meet her father, vainly 
endeavoring to carry them all in her arms. 

Stop, Cherry, my dear, you don’t look equal to that !” 
cried her father, with more than his usual hilarity, giving 
her several hearty caresses. How you have grown ! And 
you came off all right? But where is the little Jack o’ 
Lantern you were to bring with you ?” 

“Oh, she will be here in a few weeks. She has to stop 
with her father and brother at first. Dear papa, how 
well you look !” giving his hand an emphatic little 
squeeze, and patting his back as though he was some 
great boy. “ And how lovely it is at home ! Was there 
ever such another spot as ‘ Thornmere ’! ” 

They trooped after her up to her room, papa and all, — 
even Prince, who — in shame be it recorded — followed in 
the rear with his tail between his legs, stepping very gin- 
gerly over the bright rods on the stairs. Her room, gar- 
nished afresh for her home-coming, was filled with pretty 
things, — little gifts that the friends of the neighborhood 
had sent in by way of congratulation, — corner brackets, 


THORNMERE. 


33 


spatter-work, vases, mats, and a profusion of homely, 
sweet-breathed flowers. There was a new set of furniture 
in the place of that she had used since a child, — not ele- 
gant or expensive, but pretty and tasteful, painted white, 
with bunches of bright flowers here and there, — a dressing- 
table, and some dimity-covered easy-chairs. Her pictures 
and engravings were hung with new cord, and there was 
a valuable accession to the collection in the shape of a 
pair of portraits on ivory of her parents, hung in matched 
frames above the mantel. Cerise stood before them de- 
lightedly, and tears of exceeding pleasure stood in her 
eyes when she turned to thank them. 

‘‘ They are so excellent ! You look like a god, papa, 
with that grand comely head of yours thrown back just a 
little, in the very attitude I like. Did you remember 
that, dear ? And mamma looks the tender little woman 
that she is. Ah, how kind you are ! I am the happiest 
girl alive, I think 1’^ And she gathered the children 
afresh in her arms. 

‘‘Is the little boy well, Cherry, — quite, quite well?’’ 
asked womanly Lilias. 

“Yes, he is entirely well, and thinks he would know 
you all from my descriptions.” 

“ Chewwy,” lisped Alice, “did jou learn thome new 
storieth at school, and will you tell uth all about ’em ?” 

“I learned lots,” responded Cherry, oracularly, “and 
I will tell them, too, whenever you want to hear them.” 

“ Chewwy,” shrieked Master Waring, who had laid 
violent hands upon her pocket-book, and had captured 
all the stray pennies it held, “ fee, — nine, — ten cents I I 
buy tanny ; you say ’es; pese, ma’am.” 

“ The children think you have come home to play with 
them, my dear,” said the mother, fondly regarding her 
quartette. 

B* 


34 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


And so I have/’ clasping the three chatterers closer 
and hugging them until they cried for quarter. I mean 
to be their playmate for long years to come, for I am only 
a child myself, if I have finished my education.” 

My child, I was so proud of your success.” 

It was her father who spoke, — his voice husky, his eyes 
turned away. 

‘‘Yes, papa, I knew you would be. But you had no 
fears for me ?” with a bright, confident smile. “ I worked 
hard. I intended to win my diploma, as I intend to win 
everything I set my heart upon.” 

He looked at her flushing cheeks, her proud eyes, and 
a pang shot through his heart. 

“I had rather not hear you talk so,” he said, re- 
provingly. 

“Never fear, papa,” she laughed; “I shall not want 
things beyond my grasp. And if I should, why, there are 
ladders for hands that are strong enough to place them. 
I have stricken the word impossible from my vocab- 
ulary.” The bright, fearless face laughed up into his 
own. 

He had no heart to chide her on this, the first evening 
of her coming ; but he walked from the room slowly, and 
Cerise, seeing the troubled lines of his face and not know- 
ing what to make of them, followed him with wistful eyes. 
“ I am afraid I have annoyed papa,” she said. 

“No, dear,” replied her mother. “ Papa would like 
to see you more humble, I think; that is all.” 

“But I cannot be humble,” she said, sadly. “Papa 
should know that.” 

“ Well, never mind now. We want you to be happy ; 
and a good life makes a happy one, you know. Dress for 
tea, dear ; Ailsie has everything you like. I hope you 
are hungry.” 


THORNMERE. 


35 


‘^Starved, little mother!” laughed Cerise, ‘^and quite 
ready to do justice to Ailsie’s delicacies, after the half-fare 
of boarding-school life. Let James bring my baggage 
up, please, mamma; I have a trifle for the children, and 
a good deal more candy for you. Waring, than those pur- 
loined pennies will buy.” 

For the next few days she gave herself up to the enjoy- 
ment and freedom of home. 

“There is no spot on earth so beautiful 1” she would 
say, after repeated visits to the old haunts and familiar 
places. “ I am tired enough to be content with its quiet. 
Some day, mamma, I shall want excitement.” 

“I hope not, my dear,” the happy, proud mother 
would reply, choosing her words carefully, for she knew 
that to oppose in much, without plausible reasons, was no 
way to gain the confidence of this clear-headed daughter. 
“Excitement is never good, but the excitement of 
worldly pleasure is falsest and most evanescent of all.” 

It was not long before Cerise was rested, and then she 
began to seek interest in the neighborhood. 

“ Thorn mere” was only half a mile from , an 

enterprising railroad town of about six thousand inhab- 
itants. You can imagine the society of such a place, — a 
handful of very worthy aristocrats had created a “west 
end,” and lived in it, whose young ladies called them- 
selves the “Square girls,” and distinctly declined the 
honor of acquaintance with any but those of their own 
particular square, — though of late several new-comers, by 
dint of parties, dinners, and other species of angling which 
were unknown to that true lover of the art, Izaak Walton, 
consequently found no place in his book, “The Complete 
Angler,” had managed to exchange cards and occasion- 
ally spend an intimate day in the boudoirs of these cruel 
patrician families. They were not such horrible exclusives 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


36 

as they were painted, however; but in a place like Seaton 
(for it is awkward to write or to read a blank), a set who 
ate on polished mahogany, rode out in their own carriages, 
and refused to accept all in society,*^ as the phrase goes, 
was unpopular indeed. 

In ante-bellum days these things were not considerations 
with the masses. The F. F. V.’s, and the F. F. M.’s, 
and the F. F. Everybodies did as they pleased, and were 
acceded the right unquestioningly. Now the mass aspires 
to the position of the F. F.’s; and so we hear these dis- 
cussions, we have these heart-burnings, these endless, petty 
contentions. 

Lucky for Cerise that several of the Square girls had 
been her schoolmates, though, like enough, that proud 
young inheritor of a proud old Maryland name might 
have put it vice versa. At all events our Cherry had the 
entree to this select precinct, and the fuss they made over 
her, the approval with which they pronounced upon her 
style, her abilities, her accomplishments, were enough in 
themselves to turn her young head. The solemn old 
square warmed into something like gayety. There was a 
reorganization of the choir, with Cerise for leader. The 
reading circle was revived, and picnics, wood-parties, and 
fetes came at her beck and call. She was proud of this 
innovation in her favor. She told herself she was emi- 
nently calculated to do good in the world. Her first at- 
tempt had been such a glowing success ! She had so won 
upon society that when Miss Farronnade came it received 
her with open arms, it showered attentions upon her and 
chose to consider no entertainment too extravagant for 
Miss Hilton’s bosom friend. 

Fanfarronnade,” not a whit dignified by her trails 
and young-ladyism newly conferred, was charmed with 

Thornmere.” 


THORNMERE. 


37 

You never told me half how beautiful it was/’ she 
said to Cherry on the evening of her arrival. 

‘‘That was because I could not, — no one can describe 
‘Thornmere’ as it is,” her friend had replied, with rising 
color. 

Mrs. Hilton took the motherless girl to her heart 
at once; Papa Hilton looked up from his books often 
during the day to jest with the little sprite, who came 
dancing in and out of his library-windows like a glit- 
tering mote in sunbeams ; womanly Lilias arched her 
well-defined eyebrows in quiet surprise at some of her 
sallies ; Alice clapped her hands in delight at the 
wonderful narrative of “Little Margery and the Juni- 
per-tree Master Waring took tours of the garden 
on her slender willing shoulders, and Prince vainly 
strove to throw her down in prolonged gambols on the 
lawn. 

Over in Seaton she took society by storm. Miss Far- 
ronnade became the fashion ; even Cherry, for the time, 
felt herself eclipsed. She did not care for that, however; 
she consoled her vanity by the thought that her hand had 
opened the way for her conquering friend. She laughed 
to think how “ Fanfarronnade” would have turned her 
pretty nose up at the “Square” as she had found it, — 
solemn, tomb-like, pompous, with not a breath of the 
gay laughter or giddy, delightful revelry that the passers 
looked in on now. She had possessed the courage to 
remodel this old-fashioned, formal society, and she was 
quite content that her best-loved friend should enjoy the 
fruits of her well-directed talents. Poor Cherry ! how 
wise she was in these days ! But there was one who was 
not altogether satisfied. 

Papa Hilton sighed to himself when the weeks passed 
and the parties, picnics, and merry-makings showed no 

4 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


38 

signs of abatement. It was scarcely what he had expected 
from Cerise. 

Cherry should exercise her improving faculties at home 
as well as abroad,” he said to his wife one day. ‘‘I 
wonder does she expect to find life one long gala day?” 

‘‘Cerise is a child,” pleaded the fond mother; “she 
finds home lovely enough. She has Utopian ideas of 
doing good.” 

“ It would be safer for her were she a little less self- 
confident.” 

“ There is no question of security, I think. Our Cerise 
is a girl of uncommon genius, and genius is always bold, 
I have heard you say,” excused this proud, fond mother. 

“Ah ! but, my dear, boldness is not the quality for a 
woman ; not that our girl is bold, save in her free con- 
ceptions. She will have to gain wiser views of life and 
its duties before she accomplishes all she hopes. But I 
suppose you are right ; these things come with the years.” 

“What is it? What things come with the years, 
papa?” questioned a glad, gay voice. They turned and 
saw Cherry standing in the broad window-seat, her hat 
swinging from her neck, and an armful of trailing grasses 
and flowers, freshly gathered. “ ‘ I knew a bank whereon* 
these flowers grew, but Fan and I rifled it, and now we 
have come to dress your library first. Acknowledge the 
compliment gracefully, papa. Show Fan what a courtier 
you are !” She looked behind her to find that “ Fanfar- 
ronnade” had disposed of her fragrant burden on the 
grass some yards off, and was blinding Waring*s eyes with 
her yellow ringlets, while the children hid from him be- 
hind the flower-mounds. “ Fan never gets tired of 
amusing the children,’* she said, with a little expressive 
shrug of the shoulders, that, in his present mood, her 
father disrelished intensely. 


THORNMERE. 


39 


Come inside, daughter,*^ he said, holding out a hand 
as she complied with the request. ‘‘We were talking of 
you, — your mother and And he looked around for his 

wife, but she had gone off on some^ household duty, and 
they were alone. “I was saying that I feared lest you 
should forget that life is real in this ephemeral existence 
you are leading.’^ 

The bright, happy face clouded. 

“ No, papa ; I am never likely to forget that. I am 
always ransacking my brains to find in them things that 
will be of use in life.’’ 

“But this grand, master-idea of doing good. Cherry, 
what does it comprehend to you?” 

“ What does it not comprehend, you mean, papa !” 

“Assuredly, not dancing till dawn of day, then sleep- 
ing the sunshine to waste ; not singing solos in church, 
because you have a voice that will fill measureless space !” 

“Are those my motives, papa? How unkind ! I am 
scarcely so contemptible as that I” And she dashed a few 
angry tears away. 

“ I want you to be sure that these are not your para- 
mount motives, my darling.” 

“ I want to do good for good’s sake alone, and I have 
been mistaken in the very outset hy you, papa !” 

This time several tears dropped down on the chair-arm, 
and a sob of real distress escaped her. 

“ My dear, I am sure you understand me, though you 
pretend to be hurt ; more for a little wholesome petting 
than anything else, I suspect,” playfully, while he ten- 
derly patted the brown hair. “I don’t want my little 
girl’s head turned by figments. No need to seek duty in 
out-of-the-way places; enough if we observe it in the 
spot God puts us. Often we find that hard to do.” 

“I have nothing to do here, papa; mamma leaves me 


40 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


nothing. But over there,” indicating Seaton by a nod, 
they needed a change, and only see how different it is ! 

The girls are infinitely more social and agreeable ” 

And the young men, — ah, me,” cried Fan, in mock 
ecstasy, hopping in the window at Cherry^s last sentence, 
‘‘they all bow down at the shrine of her dewy eyes 
and ” 

“Golden locks!” interrupted Cerise in turn. “Papa 
has been scolding. Fan. Come, talk him into a good 
humor while I go regain mine.” 


CHAPTER V. 


A DOUBTFUL CASE. 

“ And did she love him ? What if she did not? 

Then home was still the home of happiest years.” 

Jean Ingelow. 

Papa’s hints had been salutary in their influence. He 
smiled a little, unsteadily to himself, at the alacrity with 
which she acted upon them. His slippers were always 
available now; his lemonade, iced and sugared faultlessly, 
sure to come in just at the right time, with Cherry, a little 
shy and shamefaced, for cup-bearer ; and at twilight he 
rarely missed faint, sweet echoes, from the parlor, of the 
airs he loved best ; and beguiled thither. Cerise’s fleet 
fingers afforded him a pleasure worth all the rest of the 
day. Mamma wondered at Cherry’s importunate demand 
for something to do. 

‘‘ Lilias, is there not something mamma can give me to 
do?” 

She had appealed to the strange, little woman, who sat 
diligently patching a rent in Waring’s blouse. 

“There is the Friday’s mending. Cherry,” ventured 
the child, timidly, for it seemed a heartless thing to sug- 
gest for this brilliant, elegant sister. “I have often 
heard mamma say that she disliked it most of all. I 
help, a little,” with an apologetic glance down at the 
work in her lap. 

Cerise sighed and shrugged her shoulders. 

“Well, mending was not what I would have chosen,” 
with a little dissatisfied -laugh ; “but if nothing better 

4* 41 


42 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


present itself, let me have that There, Lil,’* drawing 
the work from her hand and forcing her from her foot- 
stool, ‘‘run play; your fingers look too little to hold a 
needle. Consider that idyl made over to me,** with a 
derisive, half-playful glance at the work-basket. 

Turning to dispose herself comfortably, she saw papa 
standing in the door, and he smiled encouragingly upon 
her from above the rims of his spectacles. 

“ That*s my own daughter!** he said, with a proud, 
warm smile. 

And she sprang to his arms glowing with the delight 
his approbation gave her. 

Such halcyon, beautiful days as they were ! And yet, so 
soon gone. Fan and her friend walked arm in arm down 
through the amber glow of sunset, out of the gates, and 
on to the edge of the woods. It was Fan*s last evening, 
and the little “bluster*s** tongue was silent, for Cherry 
had been to her, mother, sister, friend, and idol all in one 
for the past five years. 

“Oh, Cherry,** she said, at last, “I wish our school- 
days might have lasted forever 1 What am I to do without 
you?** 

Cerise threw a loving arm around her school-mate, and 
tears filled her dark eyes. 

“Dear, we cannot be always together now. I shah 
miss you here. It will be lonely when you leave. I shall 
have time to miss you. But you join your papa and that 
adorable Jock, and you will not be a week at Nahant until 
you are a belle. I don*t know,** with a little arch laugh, 
the tears still not far behind, “but that it is better for 
our friendship that our paths should lie apart. I could not 
bear to be eclipsed often, as I was at Seaton.** 

“ Nonsense !** ejaculated “Fan Farronnade.** “You 
won Seaton before me. And you know you would not 


A DOUBTFUL CASE. 


43 

consider it near so much of a triumph to win it in my 
way. ^ * 

But Cerise did not hear the ardent disclaimer. She 
was looking up the road, shading her eyes with her 
hand. ^ 

‘‘Fan, — I do believe — yes, it is Philip Hale !** 

Fan whirled with a suddenness that was lost on Cerise, 
still looking up the sunlit road. 

“What is he coming for?’* asked Fan, with acerbity, 
for that young lady had cherished a dream in regard to 
her much-loved Jock, and this new-comer was viewed in 
the light of an intruder. 

It was he, surely ! As he neared them Cerise could not 
but admire the vigorous grace of his figure, the sunny 
smile in his frank, bright eyes. 

“ Miss Hilton, will you bid me welcome?” 

Cerise held out her hand cordially. 

“ Mr. Hale, welcome to ‘ Thornmere 1’ ” Then, as he 
looked inquiringly at the back of Fan’s stylish coiffure, 
“My friend, Miss Farronnade.” 

Miss Farronnade bowed distantly, and turned away 
toward the gates with such unusual dignity that Cerise 
smiled, seeing in it only a caprice of her whimsical 
pet. Papa Hilton looked out from the library-window, 
curious as to the identity of this handsome fellow, whose 
eyes were so eloquent of admiration as they rested on his 
daughter. Lilias quietly stepped in to mamma. 

“ There is a very strange gentleman with Cherry. Had 
you not better go out, mamma?” 

Cerise answered the question in her mother’s eyes : 
“This is Mr. Hale, mamma. I think I mentioned him 
as Willie Craighton’s friend.” 

Mr. Philip Hale bowed very courteously over the hand 
Mrs. Hilton extended to him, but there was a protest on 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


44 

his face when she bade him welcome to Thornmere, add- 
ing— 

If you have news of Willie Craighton for my daugh- 
ter, I am sure she will be delighted.” 

‘‘Excuse me, madam,” replied Mr. Hale, with rising 
color, “I come to Thornmere as your daughter’s friend.” 

The emphasis was unmistakable. Cerise bit her lips 
with vexation. She wished dear little mamma would not 
make such mistakes. Then papa came out on the porch, 
and Cerise bit her lip more angrily than before, when 
Philip Hale said, — 

“I asked Miss Hilton at ‘ Norbourne’ for an invitation 
to Thornmere. She declined giving it. I believe she 
does not ask for what she does not particularly want,” 
with a quizzical glance at the young lady in question. 
“ But I have ventured to intrude upon your hospitality 
notwithstanding.” 

Mr. Hilton laughed, well pleased. The young man’s 
eyes and honest speech accorded well. 

“You are very welcome, sir. You must not mind our 
Cherry ; she is a little unlike other folks in some things, 
but she means well.” 

If Mr. Philip Hale was interested in the quiet, proud 
girl whom he had met bending over a sick-bed in the 
long, narrow infirmary, he was bewitched by the graceful 
vision that met him at the tea-table, in thin muslin, with 
great scarlet japonicas in the coils of her russet-brown 
hair and among the creamy laces at her throat. Fan, 
ostensibly playing the agreeable to one of her Seaton 
adorers, eyed the pair at the piano with increasing 
dismay. Cerise was never so thoroughly charming as 
when in her own drawing-room. To-night she talked 
carelessly, joyously ; played her favorite songs, pathetic 
or merry, as her mood changed ; was tender, wilful, im- 


A DOUBTFUL CASE. 


45 

petous, careful, by turns, until Philip Hale wondered in 
which mood she was most fascinating. 

^‘Though I should never awaken in your heart the in- 
terest I want you to feel in me, I shall not regret having 
visited you in your own home. It has given me new and 
delicious impressions of you,’^ he said, as they were bid- 
ding each other good-night. 

Cerise pondered upon this, looking out upon the Au- 
gust moon, while Fan waited, as in the old school-days, 
for her to come and chat with her before she retired. 

If it were Fanfarronnade he liked, I should not won- 
der. But I am much too moody for him ; he should see 
that!’* 

Foolish Cherry ! Had she forgotten how blind was born 
the little god Love ? 

Fannie Farronnade left for New York the next day. It 
was a hard trial to bid the little Jack-a-lantern good-by, 
but Fan must be given up now that school-days were but 
a memory. So they consoled each other with promises 
of a speedy reunion. 

‘‘You will spend next winter with me. It will be 
gorgeous ! But mind, I don’t want you if you intend to 
allow that boy down-stairs to have his own way. I want 
you to come to New York free. Do you hear?” 

This was the “bluster’s” parting injunction. 

Cerise laughed through her tears. 

“ Why, Fanfarronnade^ what possible difference can it 
make? I am not going to bind myself with promises to 
you any more than to him, — so there ! But whether I 
come ‘mine, or another’s,’ I will come to enjoy myself, 
and to be petted and spoiled by you, darling.” 

“Which you won’t be if you come ‘another’s’ I” re- 
torted Fan, hotly, as she brushed away some stealthy 
tears. 


46 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


He’s not half good enough for you ; besides, you 
are too young. You wouldn’t know your own mind. 
Heavens, Cherry ! you don’t intend to let that fellow 
with his fresh face and sweet voice wheedle you into 
making an old woman of yourself?” 

Cherry’s face was haughty now, albeit, some stray tears 
made the proud eyes look tender. 

presume we will settle that satisfactorily. Fan, without 
the aid of a third party. You need never fear that I will 
take a step without regarding it, prematurely. If you don’t 
want me this winter under any and all circumstances, 
then you don’t want me at all ; and I shall stay home and 
regain, if I can, my old prestige in Seaton.” 

The sentence ended playfully, but Fan did not press the 
subject further, as she knew from past experiences that 
her friend would scarcely brook more, even from her. 

Cerise was glad to see Mr. Hale coming in at the gates 
a little after four o’clock. 

Early,” he said, ‘‘ami notj But I saw the nimbus 
spreading, and a few low mutterings over yonder apprised 
me of what was coming.” 

“ Not too early,” she replied. “ I am dismally lonely 
since my friend. Miss Farronnade, has gone. Somehow, 
I could not take my usual siesta ; so I dressed early, and 
am ready for you.” 

“What pretty things you wear !” he said, touching the 
folds of her dress ; thin organdy, with a rose-colored bar 
running lengthwise over it. 

The remark was that of a boy, the eyes, shining eagerly, 
the eyes of a great frank boy. 

Cerise blushed a little. 

“ Yes, I often feel sorry for your sex, doomed to the 
eternal sameness of broadcloth and linen, with no 
more variety in your toilet than is afforded by the shade 


A DOUBTFUL CASE. 


47 

of your neckties. You did not come any too soon, — 
see The rain was pouring. 

'‘Let us go out on the porch,’* she said; "I have a 
passion for these summer showers that come just before 
the sunset and lend to the twilight their soft, weird accom- 
paniment.” 

He followed her with rapt eyes. She was certainly 
more beautiful than he had ever supposed her to be. She 
leaned out to draw a stray limb of mock-orange, wet and 
odorous, through the piazza railing. He cried out in mock 
protest when she buried her face among the wet leaves. 

"Are you usually so reckless of consequences. Miss 
Hilton?” 

She lifted her face, rosy and laughing. 

"It is pure bloom of youth , — sans doute ; may it long 
continue the same !” 

" Thanks. But one’s bloom of youth is so soon over, 
is it not?” she asked, musingly. 

" Yours is all to enjoy yet,” he said, wondering at the 
grave eyes. " Your feet have scarcely reached the brink 
of that stream Longfellow writes about.” 

" I don’t know. Sometimes I imagine I am more than 
half through. The body counts age by the whitening 
locks, the added wrinkles; ’tis not so with the soul. 
One’s soul could grow old in a single day. Don’t you 
believe it ?” 

"I never thought of it. But it does not seem so to me. 
Perhaps, because my nature is buoyant, and will not own 
the sway of sorrow long.” 

She broke off a twig of blossoms, and, shaking the rain- 
drops from their hearts, picked them carefully, one by 
one, from the stems. A soft color warmed her face, the 
proud, dark eyes grew tender, the determined red lips fell 
apart in a sigh. 


48 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


‘‘Your face is very expressive,’’ said her companion; 
“but of what I am unable to determine.” 

“I was thinking, Mr. Hale, that I am so young as to 
want to be older ; and so old as to regret the youth that 
most girls find such a dream of pleasure.” 

He did not look satisfied. 

“ Girls of my age are content to enjoy whatever comes 
along, without perplexing themselves with the problem of 
how they are to do the most good and get the greatest 
good. Mamma says a good life makes a happy one. 
Somebody else says a useful life makes a good one.” 
She paused. 

A low sobbing wind swept around the gables, a quicker 
rush of rain-drops followed upon the lawn. 

“You want to be of use?” he queried. 

She lifted her face to his, and her eyes flashed. 

“ Oh, of such incalculable use ! I shall not be satisfied 
with throwing a mite into the treasury. I shall want to 
bestow to the uttermost !” 

Her words sounded like inspiration to honest Philip 
Hale. She looked like a goddess with her brilliant, steady 
eyes. Was he the man to win her ? — he who had never 
cast a thought beyond the beggars of humanity ? 

“ But you have not told me why you regret your youth,” 
he said. 

“Why? Because I have done with it. Somehow it 
seems to have slipped from me, and I have no alternative 
left but to be a woman.” 

The eyes were wistful again, the bright lips unsteady. 
Philip Hale leaned toward her chair, and his voice trem- 
bled with suppressed emotion. 

“You embolden me to speak. You, a woman, not a 
child, will understand and answer me if I ask you a 
question this evening. Miss Hilton?” 


A DOUBTFUL CASE, 


49 


She drew back in a sort of affright. 

Je vous ronercie ! my soft mood has passed. I have 
been thinking aloud, Mr. Hale.*’ 

‘‘Miss Hilton, Cerise, forgive me; I leave to-morrow, 
and deadly disappointment is preferable to suspense. 
Have you not found it so?” 

“ No,” she said, lightly. “To my mind the most in- 
tolerable suspense is more welcome than disappointment. 
Because with suspense you have also expectation and 
hope.” 

But he interrupted her. 

“I am in no mood to hear you reason so calmly.” 

“Well,” — and the clear, steady gaze of her eyes dis- 
concerted him, — “ if you have anything to ask me I will 
hear, and answer, if possible.” 

“ Miss Hilton, I have something to say, assuredly, but 
if you look at me in that calm, disinterested manner, I 
fear I shall blunder sadly.” 

She dropped her eyes, with a smile, and he resumed, — 

“ You know my object in coming here. It was because 
I wanted to awaken in your heart the love you have kin- 
dled in mine. I have thought of you always since. I met 
you in the infirmary. And now for my question, — have 
I interested you ?” 

She looked at him a moment, quietly, then she answered 
him. 

“ Yes ; I candidly confess that you have interested me 
heartily,” with a smile peculiarly girlish and winsome. 

He leaned over nearer and took her hand. 

“Would the interest you feel in me warrant your 
giving me such a precious possession as this dear little 
hand ?” 

She shook her head merrily. 

“ I should mistrust my own opinion upon that. I am 
c 5 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


SO 

Still too young, as years go, to know anything of such 
matters, Mr. Hale.’* 

A lover less blinded than Philip Hale would have felt 
his hope fail at that, but he read in it a fair promise for 
his future. 

‘‘ Will you ask mamma to-night?” he asked. 

Cerise looked up into the handsome eyes and laughed. 
He was charming, — there was no doubt of that, — and a 
good, noble fellow ! Before he had her answer the sup- 
per-bell tinkled, and the children trooped out on the 
porch. The kind smile with which she had taken his 
arm to supper did not prepare him for what she said when 
they went back to the porch and resumed the conversa- 
tion where it was left off. 

‘‘You know I always have reasons for everything. It 
cannot be as you desire, Mr. Hale, for the best of reasons : 
there are no assimilating points in our character.” 

“Am I so uncongenial to you, then ?” he asked, sadly. 

“ Oh, no. On the contrary, I find you a delightful 
companion, — amusing and entertaining, and nice as pos- 
sible. But our natures are radically different ; our tastes, 
our habits, — in all we are opposite.” 

“ But do you not know that very wise men say dissimi- 
larity is the pivot of matrimony?” 

“Even very wise men may be mistaken,” she said, 
half-playfully. “I cannot understand how two people, 
born with opposite natures and raised to different habits, 
can expect any abiding happiness with each other when 
one will is so necessary.” 

“ Do you take me for a tyrant ?” he asked. “ My wife 
shall be queen, not subject.” 

“And my husband shall be king, not subject,” she 
retorted, laughingly, though her eyes flashed. “You are 
generous, I know, but you cannot speak for the contin- 


A DOUBTFUL CASE. 


51 


gencies of the future. There might come a day when 
you or I would say, ‘ It is a sad mistake ; we may never 
hope to assimilate.* Then what would be left to us?’* 

He caught her hand passionately. 

‘‘How would it be possible for me ever to say that ! 
It looks like all the bliss in life for me. I cannot be de- 
ceived. Though to you, perhaps ; you, with your glorious 

intellect, your superb talents ** 

She interrupted him. 

“ Hush ! you wrong me deeply. If I have talent, you 
have strength ; if I possess intellect, so do you, and along 
with it a sublime content, a sunny insouciance, that I shall 
never reach,** regretfully. “ We are evenly poised as far 
as gifts go.** 

“ But you are not satisfied that I could make your hap- 
piness. Then ponder it well, for your misery is mine. 
Cerise ; you must know that. I would rather walk the 
world alone than bring one hour of unhappiness into your 
life. I love you so well, my darling ; do you not believe 
that? Too well to cast one shadow over your future.** 
Her eyes flashed up into his wet with sudden tears. 

“ I believe you, and thank you for the honor you have 
shown me. Will you rest satisfied with what I am going 
to say ? I do not believe I shall ever love very deeply. 
While the other girls were talking of parties and lovers at 
school, I was thinking of things as fruitless, perhaps ; but 
I am sure a nobler man than you cannot live. I know I 
never saw one so manly, so tender and good.** He put 
out a hand to stop her, but she would not be interrupted. 
“But, then, I have seen few, you know. Go home ; let 
me think of you absent ; let me discover if really your 
society is a pleasure I miss and long for ; then come back 
in the fall for your answer.** He caught both of her 
hands in a tumult of gratitude. “No, no!’* she cried, 


52 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


‘^you have nothing for which to thank me ; for, after all, 
my answer may be, ‘ No.* Your happiness deserves some 
consideration. If you love me so well that you will be 
miserable without me, then I should find out if possible 
the true state of my feelings toward you. This is different 
from most matters, is it not ? I would do much for my 
fellows, but I cannot give myself away unless my heart 
sanctions the gift.** 

‘‘ Thanks ! I shall take some small comfort home with 
me, at least.** 

“In the mean time release Hope, if that be possible. 
You know Hesiod says hope is one of the ten thousand 
evils.** 

He did not know, but he smiled and said that instead 
of releasing Hope he would shackle her securely, for if 
hope was an evil it was more blessed than many of the 
cardinal virtues. 

“ Hope is an evil guide if it lure you to faith in me ; 
for I am capricious as the wind, which is veering even 
now, and will clear for us a glorious sunset presently. 
See !** she cried, leaning out of the window. “ There is 
a Claude canvas on a large scale !** 

“For shame, daughter!** reproves papa, who has just 
stepped out on the piazza. “Say rather a masterpiece 
from the hand of the Great Artist.** 

“Forgive me, papa; the first thought finds expression 
always, you know. I shall learn to be circumspect of 
speech in time.** 

On the morrow Cerise went straightway to her mamma 
with the story. 

“Ah, well! you may talk of it, but I shall keep you 
many years yet. The Hales are good people, however, I 
believe. Your Aunt Hepsey knows them. I wouldn*t 
be too ready to engage myself, my dear.** 


CHAPTER VL 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE. 

Ah ! we know 

Too much here not to know what's best for peace.” 

Aurora Leigh. 

With all due deference to the institutions of our pros- 
perous republic, be it said, our society needs a certain 
regulation for the improvement of its adjuncts ; that is, a 
definite requirement in regard to the age and condition 
of its votaries. In America, girls fresh from the restraints 
of the schools, be they fifteen or twenty, are thrust into 
the great van of the world, and fed upon persiflage and 
flattery, when their young hearts are most pliable, and 
when impressions are received as creeds, to be followed 
as we of maturer minds follow the tenets of our faith. 
Of the sad mistakes that have been perpetrated, of the 
many lives that have been warped, nay, entirely wrecked, 
as the result of this injudicious system, there is no reck- 
oning. 

At an evening party not long ago, I noticed a little 
girl, a pretty fairy of seven or thereabouts, leading by 
the hand a little friend some years younger. They were 
evidently on a tour of inspection, for they glided through 
the rooms quietly, and were about to make egress through 
the hall-door when a gentleman accosted them, playfully, 
and catching the younger in his arms, said, Kiss me, 
Nan.^* 

Nan was about to comply, when her Liliputian duenna 
lifted surprised eyes and a tiny, warning finger. 

5 * 


53 


54 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


Why, Nota,** laughed the gentleman, ‘‘you have 
kissed me often. Are you jealous of Nan?’* 

“ No,” indignantly cried Nota; “ but I never kiss you 
before them all 

There was a shout of laughter. 

“That is amusing,” said the gentleman. “She is the 
most conscious child I ever saw.” 

“ Yes,” I thought, “it is amusing now, but a few years 
later it will be deplorable.” 

And now, to indemnify the reader for the tedium of 
this digression : Cerise Hilton was not yet sixteen, yet 
she had the sway of a woman at home as well as abroad. 
It was good for her, she told herself, she was years ahead 
of her companions in all but age ; and then she was 
self-assertive and determined, and so it was impossible 
for her to retire into the niche that most girls of her 
age occupied. Well, we will see how much her early 
womanhood had to do with the promotion of her happi- 
ness. 

Owen Meredith is right, we have no children in these 
days : “ There is no strength to bear them, old Time is 
so old.” 

“ Where all have you been, sister?” asked Lilias, help- 
ing Cerise off with her hat, and stooping to gather up the 
scattered papers in her wake. 

“Well,” breathlessly, throwing herself on the hall sofa, 
“first I went to Mrs. Morgan’s for that afghan pattern 
she promised me; then I stopped to go over the tenor 
with Clarice Datey, in ‘Arise, O Lord !’ You don’t 
dream what a bungle she made of it. I haven’t any pa- 
tience with an ignoramus. Then I helped Bunny Wil- 
liams with the text he was illuminating ; marked a new 
dozen of the library books, and called for these letters. 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE. 


55 

— one of which is from Aunt Hepsey, I know by the cork- 
screw address/* 

How much you do get through in a morning ! I 
have done nothing but stitch on this garment for old 
Milly.** And she held up a half-finished piece of very 
brown, thick muslin. 

Cerise laughed. don*t think I should have made 
as much progress with that uninviting thing as you. 
Where is mamma?’* 

In the library, I believe; had you not better take the 
letters over. Cherry?” 

Mamma was knitting in the library, to be company for 
papa, she said ; though papa, when Cherry entered, looked 
up for the first time in a long while from the ^‘Littell** 
he had been absorbedly perusing. Cerise gave him his 
papers, and handed her mamma the letter designated as 
from Aunt Hepsey. Mrs. Hilton read it a little uneasily, 
feeling that Cerise was searching her face with those large 
eyes, grown suddenly very clear. She laid it in her basket 
and went back to her knitting. 

Well, mamma?” 

Mrs. Hilton did not look up : Aunt Hepsey is coming 
for a visit.” 

Cerise’s eyes smouldered, and a bright color burned in 
her face, then she left the library, closing the door behind 
her with no very gentle hand. Papa was too engrossed 
to notice anything short of an explosion beneath his feet, 
so Mrs. Hilton, after a stealthy glance at him, let fall a 
tear or two upon her glistening needle-points and stifled 
an anxious sigh. Gradually Mr. Hilton gave signs of 
existence, plunged both hands in his hair, and broke out 
into an ejaculation of profound delight. 

‘‘ Really, my dear, here is something fine. Would you 
mind hearing it ?” 


56 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


He waited for an answer, but when none came, turned 
to find the little matron’s chair empty, Mrs. Hilton hav- 
ing left just in time to escape being victimized, as was her 
wont. She had been the faithful auditor for many years 
of everything worthy or unworthy that struck his erratic 
fancy ; but most of the brilliant passages he read to her 
escaped from one ear to the other, and I am sure had she 
been questioned as to the matter of her husband’s library, 
her innocent ignorance would have smacked of the sub- 
lime. She was wont to say, I should be a heathen if 
it were not for papa’s readings ; they keep me posted in 
what I ought to know,” and then she would nap quietly 
during the ‘‘readings,” always managing to wake up in 
time for a pleasant response. But she was a tender, care- 
ful mother, a loving wife, and if she gained her erudition 
in a way peculiar to herself, it certainly did not matter 
to her honest, genial lord, who always found his meals 
right to a “ t” and his linen immaculate. Besides, she 
was in the habit of yielding him a most profound and 
flattering attention between her naps, and he was too 
much absorbed in his beloved books to have ever detected 
the innocent fraud. 

“Why did you leave, my dear?” papa asked at tea. 
“ ‘ Litteir had such a fine translation of ‘ Carcazone’ I 
wanted you to hear it.” 

“ Indeed !” responded the little woman, with a pleased 
smile, and Cerise, ashamed by this time of her ebullition 
of temper, laughed with evident enjoyment. 

“ Mamma has never had a Carcazone, papa ; she would 
not be able to appreciate it.” 

“ And did you see your Carcazone this evening, daugh- 
ter?” 

“ No, sir : I never expect to see mine from the infinite 
number that I possess.” 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE. 


57 


am sorry to think so. Did you take the grapes 
to Miss Ellen and stay to chat with her ? It is so little 
of the outside world that she sees.** 

‘‘ No, papa ; I handed them to the servant at the door ; 
there were a dozen or more things that I was obliged to 
do.** 

‘‘Then you should have postponed one of the dozen 
or more. You have no engagement for to-night ?** 

“ Oh, yes, — the choir rehearsal.** 

“But I invited Mr. Lindsay out. He says he enjoys 
your music, and there is so little recreation the poor fellow 
has. He is much too good a fellow to waste his time upon 
a herd of bullet-heads, such as that school in the hollow 
comprises. He is a regular Dominie Sampson.** 

“Splay feet and all, and about as little skilled in the 
small, sweet courtesies of life ; however, I am willing to 
amuse him if you say so, only if we all make blunders on 
Sabbath, he will be the last to help us out, I am sure.** 
Mr. Lindsay shuffled in after tea, a “splay-footed,** 
sallow-faced, awkward man, as Cerise had said, — lantern- 
jawed as to visage, with only the eyes, lambent and clear, 
to redeem the face. He stammered “good-evening,** 
wiped his forehead frantically with his handkerchief, 
rolled his eyes around in his earnest endeavor to take in 
the aspect of the apartment, and in groping for a chair 
wound his feet inextricably in the ball of knitting cotton 
Mrs. Hilton had dropped in her eager hospitality. This 
last was too much for the good papa*s risibles, he being 
cursed with a keen sense of the ridiculous, and Cerise*s 
allusion to those same awkward feet occurred to him so 
inopportunely that, to sustain the dignity of the house, 
he was obliged to make a rapid exit via the French 
window. 

The unlucky visitor, while Mrs. Hilton was plying in- 
c* 


FOR HONORIS SAJTE. 


58 

genious fingers upon what seemed at every fresh essay re- 
solving itself into a veritable Gordian knot, stared around 
wildly, as though meditating upon the nearest means of 
escape, and felt every drop of blood in his body rush to 
his head, when a door opened and Cerise came into the 
room, fresh and graceful in a bewildering home costume 
that left the round white shoulders and arms bare. She 
restrained her inclination to laugh at the comical aspect 
of things, and with a merry salutation dived into her 
pocket for the little knife that a school-girl is rarely 
without. 

Mamma, has the idea not suggested itself that your 
scissors might be more to the purpose than those bungling 
fingers, which only seem to be making matters worse ? It 
is scarcely kind to keep Mr. Lindsay standing after a long 
walk, merely to insure the smoothness of your knitting.’^ 
And with deft fingers she snapped the frail threads and 
delivered him from his unwilling bondage. 

‘‘Don’t you know,” she said, bringing her arch face 
to bear full upon him, as she took an easy-chair near the 
sofa where he had retired, “ I think contretemps of that 
nature are more fortunate than otherwise ; they serve to 
dispel the awkwardness of a first meeting, in short, they 
‘ break the ice’ more effectually than anything we may 
do or say.” 

Mr. Lindsay shuffled uneasily. 

“ I am not sure that I agree with you. I had rather 
slip and slide and run the risk of breaking my neck on 
the ice of society, than to fall through as awkwardly and 
noticeably as I so often do.” 

Whereupon Cerise laughed so interestedly that the tutor 
was beguiled into the belief that he had said a witty thing. 

“ Mamma, do you remember the evening the Western 
magnates were entertained here?” 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE, 


59 


Mamma laughed, and Cherry inferred therefrom that 
she was at liberty to retail that episode for her hearer’s 
amusement. 

‘‘You see, Mr. Lindsay, papa was entertained by a 
stock mining company, while on his late trip West, and 
when they came on about a month ago to investigate the 
mineral capacities of our vicinity, papa in return offered 
them the courtesies of his home. Mamma gave them a 
supper, — of course you heard of it, were invited doubtless, 
but as you were not here you failed to witness the prime 
entertainment of the evening. When mamma came in to 
be introduced before supper, papa was amazed and shocked 
and mortified, all in a breath, to find her enveloped from 
head to foot in a grimy kitchen apron, with smutches 
from the stove on the pocket and a profuse sprinkling of 
flour about the bib. The merriment was so uproarious 
that Lilias and I, who remained in the background, came 
to the conclusion that papa had mistaken his men, and 
we were entertaining the miners instead of the company. 
The evening was a success after that. Mamma, you were 
quite a belle, were you not ? So much for an awkward 
contretemp, Mr. Lindsay.” 

The tutor began to feel more comfortable ; it was some 
consolation to know that others were awkward beside 
himself ; and then to hear from the lips of an elegant, 
graceful young lady that awkwardness was even attractive 
upon some occasions, went far towards making him feel 
at ease in her society. 

Cerise talked on in her fresh, gracious m.anner, inter- 
esting him into unusual demonstration. It was delightful, 
as it was new to him, to pour some of his many but hith- 
erto untold aspirations into the ear of this whole-souled, 
generous girl, who helped him by her sensible, womanly 
suggestions, and seemed to understand intuitively the 


6o 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


workings of his mind ; then, too, she acquiesced so 
heartily in most of his opinions that he was beginning to 
think they might not, after all, be quite so worthless as 
he was in the habit of considering them. 

‘‘But I had quite forgotten my object in coming to- 
night, Miss Hilton,” he said, at last, with an ingenuous- 
ness that amused the girl. “Your papa said you would 
play for me and sing, perhaps.” 

She sprang to the piano as a bird to its favorite perch, 
ran her fingers over the keys in a prelude of delicious 
improvisation, then commenced the slow recitative of 
“The Day is Done.” It was as though she had looked 
into his soul and read what was hidden therein. 

There was suspicious moisture in his eyes when she 
finished, and his voice shook as he said, “ If you would 
not mind. Miss Hilton, I should like to hear the last four 
lines again.” 

And Miss Hilton, marvelling a little, sung softly, — 

“ ' And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away.’ ” 

-Sf iiC- 

He arose to bid her good-night. 

“You will have nothing more, Mr. Lindsay?” she 
asked in surprise. She was not used to being let off so 
easily. 

“ No, Miss Hilton ; I shall want to take those echoes 
home with me. I make one beautiful thing last me a 
long time.” 

There was some sad note in his voice that struck her 
with pain. Was his life so bare of beauties that he 
should so sparingly use them ? 

“If you think that beautiful, Mr. Lindsay, I will fur- 


THE WEATHER AH ADVOCATE, 


6i 


nish you with many such whenever you feel inclined to 
come for them.*’ 

You will ? Then I shall come often as I can, and I 
thank you for your kindness. If you can find other 
things for me like ‘The Day is Done,* I fear I shall 
annoy you by my requests for ‘vain repetitions,* ** with 
a smile. 

Cerise half sighed, — 

“I do not enjoy ‘The Day is Done.* Perhaps if I 
should ever grow into a world-weary woman, — and I may ; 
who knows ? — I should like to croon it over softly to my- 
self in the twilight. I have no experience of the ‘long 
days of labor,* nor ‘nights devoid of ease,* and I don’t 
like to sing of them. This is what I like.** And she 
turned on the stool, and, with a bright, fearless face, 
matching the dauntless spirit of the song, broke into the 
following, the exuberance of a happy heart and brave 
nature infusing itself in the strain : 

“ ‘ It’s we two, we two, we two for aye. 

All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay ! 

Like the laverock in the lift, sing, oh, bonny bride ! 

All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

“ ‘ What’s the world, my lass, my love, what can it do ? 

I am thine, and thou art mine, and life is fresh and new ; 

If the world hath missed its mark, why, let it go by. 

For we two have gained new leave and once more we’ll try. 

“ ‘ Like a laverock in the lift, sing, oh, bonny bride ! 

It’s we two, we two, happy side by side ; 

Take a kiss from me, my love, and now the song begins, 

All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins ! 

“ ‘ Then when darker days come and no sun will shine, 

You will dry my tears, love, and I will dry thine. 

It’s we two, we two, while the world’s away, 

* Singing by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day T ** 

6 


62 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


He smiled half sadly into her bright, eager face when 
she finished. 

‘‘ That is the song for you, just as the other is the song 
for me. Good-night. I thank you for a delicious respite 
from the /cares that infest the day.* ** 

And he went out into the darkness, the voice with which 
she had sung, ‘‘And the night shall be filled with music,** 
filling every pause in the sighing September wind. * 

It rained the next day steadily. Little puddles of 
muddy water lay along the gravel in the garden-paths, 
and the border box looked glossy, as though it had been 
varnished. Cerise walked to and fro in a restless mood. 
Lilias was practising a Requiem in the back parlor ; but 
she was making the hero*s death a reveille, the procession 
to the grave a fHe d'triomphe, and the wail of the mourners 
a medley brilliante. It was too much trouble to set the 
child right, besides, expression in music was born in 
one, and dear little Lil, the most delightful of motherly, 
quaint children, had no music in her soul, or, if she had, 
it utterly refused to find vent in her finger-tips. She went 
up to her room and settled her epistolary debts until din- 
ner. After dinner she discussed with mamma the coming 
winter and the promised visit to Fan ; then Ailsie came 
up with some complaints of the soap she was boiling, and 
Cerise went over to the parlors for a few moments’ relaxa- 
tion at the piano. But she fell into a revery, with her 
arms on the rack. She wondered when Philip Hale would 
be coming for his answer. If he came this evening she 
believed she would say yes, — it was so dark and dismal, 
his handsome eyes would lighten the atmosphere, his 
cheery tones dispel the restlessness that had haunted her 
all day. Philip Hale ! his very name stood as a synonym 
for eternal sunniness, while she was moody and impulsive. 
Strive to deny it as she might, she had a tender feeling 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE. 63 

for Philip Hale, he was so strong, brave, and generous. 
He was not the beau ideal of her girlish imaginings, but, 
after all, who marries her beau ideal ? He was not ^‘Lara- 
like and distingue,** as she had once told Fanfarron- 
nade her lover would be; and there was no delicious 
aroma of mystery clinging about him, as she had further 
intended. He had told her all about himself there was 
to tell. He was the only child of his parents, well pro- 
vided for, as far as worldly goods went, with an eye and 
a head and a hand to make his own way through the 
world, she little doubted. She had told him she would 
discover, when apart from him, if his society was a pleas- 
ure she missed, and to-day she found herself almost long- 
ing for him ; to-day. When the sky looked like a leaden 
roofing and the lanes ran rivers, when books failed to 
satisfy, and even music, that premier solace, held little or 
no charm for her. 

“ Ah, Mr. Hale ! if you knew, if you knew, you would 
surely be here this evening, despite sullen rain and gloom- 
ing clouds.** She lifted her face from her arms, flushed, 
with a glad light of triumph in the eyes. It was so sweet 
to be loved by a man like this, eight years her senior and 
one who knew the world so well. 

“ Is it Miss Hilton — or Cherry?’* She sprang from the 
stool, her eyes black from surprise. 

Philip Hale stood in the doorway irresolute and anx- 
ious, a strained eager look in the eyes alone denoting 
how great was the suspense of the moment. She ad- 
vanced toward him incredulously. 

“Mr. Hale I Philip! I was wishing you were here. 
I ’* 

“ Then, thank God, I have not waited in vain, Cherry, 
my darling!’* And he threw his arms about her with a 
boyish hesitancy that was irresistible. “I am wildly 


64 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


happy. I never dared hope for this. You are a riddle 
to me, my darling, but the little of you I do understand 
I do love so infinitely.*’ 

She tried to laugh off her confusion. It was very au- 
dacious in Mr. Hale to hold her so closely ; he would not 
let her go. 

“ Explain it tQ me ; how did you arrive at this conclu- 
sion ? You seemed so far from it when I left.” 

■» 

“ ‘ How could I know I would love thee afar 
When I loved thee not anear?’ ” 

she quoted. /‘The day seems suddenly grown bright. 
Has it stopped raining?” 

“ No ; I left a dripping overcoat in the hall.” 

“ Will you release me now ? I believe I have been sur- 
prised into these unusual demonstrations, and perchance 
you and I may regret them.” 

He smiled confidently, only wrapping his arms closer 
about her. “It is so delicious to appropriate you, my 
darling.” 

“ But mamma would never forgive me if I failed to 
apprise Ailsie of your arrival in time to conjure up some- 
thing extra for your dinner.” 

“Dinner! Don’t pull me out of my ideal heaven so 
rudely ! Who thinks of eating at such a time as this?” 

She laughed mockingly, — 

“ ‘ We may live without love ; what is passion but pining ? 

But where is the man who can live without dining ?’ ” 

And with a dexterous movement she eluded him, closing 
the door behind her retreating skirts. 

It was characteristic of her that she went first to her 
father, and, with an arm around his neck, whispered, 
“Papa, Mr. Hale is in the parlor; he asked me, the last 


THE WEATHER AN ADVOCATE, 65 

time he was here, to promise that I would marry him even- 
tually. I told him to come in the fall for his answer, and 
to-day I have promised ; only not for a long, long time. 
Please don't scold, and explain it all to mamma." And 
without waiting for an answer, she vanished through the 
door into the hall. 

It would be impossible to convey an idea of Mr. Hil- 
ton's surprise. ‘‘It is a joke !" he said, adopting the idea 
nearest his desire and farthest from probability ; but at 
dinner, Mr. Hale's beaming aspect and Cerise's frivolity 
confirmed the revelation she had made. Cherry was wont 
to cover, with a thin varnish of levity, her deepest emotions. 

After dinner Mr. Hale followed her father into the 
library, and she ran up to her own room with a fluttering 
heart. Lilias, passing through on her way to the nursery, 
detected an unwonted flush on her sister's cheeks, an un- 
wonted restlessness in the fingers that beat a rapid tattoo 
upon the window-sill. 

“Why are you not down in the parlor. Cherry? Mr. 
Hale is all alone," she said. 

Then the interview was over 1 She shook her skirts 
into position, readjusted hair and throat ribbon, and went 
down to her lover. 

“It is all right. Cherry," said Philip Hale, advancing 
to meet her, and taking her two hands in his own ; “ but 
your papa insists that I serve a probationary term, which 
I beg of you to shorten if possible." 

“ That is as it should be. We will have time to thor- 
oughly test each other in the mean time, and to fall out 
of love if need be. These speedy marriages are often ill- 
judged, to say the least of them." 

His face clouded. “You speak of our love as though 
there were a possibility that it might not endure." 

She laughed lightly. “ I am a reasonable being, there- 
6 * 


66 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


fore I consider it wise to make provision for all contin- 
gencies, so that the occasion may not find us totally 
unprepared/* 

‘‘When you talk like that I am constrained to remem- 
ber that you have not, as yet, told me that you love me.** 
Cerise felt her lower lip curl, and an indignant scarlet 
flooded her face. “I thought you understood the con- 
cessions I have made,** she said, irritably; and Philip Hale 
knew from the cold, proud tone, as well as the color that 
refused to leave her cheeks, how deeply he had offended 
her. 

“My own darling, don*t frown upon me. It is be- 
cause I love you so well that I ask so much of you. Be- 
lieve me, I do understand the concessions you have made, 
and value them accordingly. I was but unfortunate in 
my choice of expressions, that was all. Look up ! I 
shall expect nothing but smiles in the future.** 

“Then you will be often and sorely disappointed, for 
there are days when a smile would be more impossible for 
me than a convulsion. My moods are about as change- 
able as those of the heavens, — black as a thunder-cloud 
to-day, golden as the Orient to-morrow. Don’t expect 
anything of me ever, Mr. Hale, and perhaps I may occa- 
sion you a pleasant surprise now and then.** 

“ Then I shall expect nothing but constancy, my own.** 
“And that you shall have, I promise you.** 

So her lover, in the glory of her smile, forgot the frown 
that but a moment ago had made his soul sad. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AUNT HEPSEY. 

" Comes the future to the present. 

‘ Ah !’ she saith, ‘ too blithe of mood.^ ” 

The magical season of the year was upon them. Our 
gorgeous Maryland woods were fragrant with autumn 
odors and alive with the rustling voices of autumn leaves. 
Cerise, the woman Cerise, with thoughtful eyes and gentle 
hand and voice, spent long hours in their midst, learning 
new lessons of life’s mutations and the eternal, grand 
endurance of life’s germ, — the soul. 

Lilias always accompanied her in these rambles. There 
was a mute bond between the two, irreconcilable, when we 
measure them by years, but easily explained when we find 
how rarely attuned one was to the other in most of the 
ruling principles of their being. She was a bright-haired, 
clear-faced child, with a singular purity of expression about 
the serious mouth and blue eyes, given to a deliberate 
consideration of most matters in question, and very sure 
to decide conscientiously without much thought of per- 
sonal preference. 

On one evening in the middle of October Cerise and 
Lilias started for a walk. Waring caught sight of the two 
and bumped down several steps successively in a frantic 
endeavor to reach them. Cherry vainly essayed to bribe 
him with a handful of acorns, but Waring scattered them, 
shouting vociferously his determination to be in no wise 
routed. Cerise whispered some beguiling promises into 

67 


68 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


his ear with no better success, then growing impatient she 
pushed him aside, with a frown, and resumed her walk 
through the garden-path, plucking a huge bouquet of chrys- 
anthemums and late roses as she went. At the gate she 
missed Lilias, and turning, saw her half-way up the hall 
stairs with Waring on her shoulders, holding on by main 
force and digging his stout, little, booted heels in her sides 
with every fresh step she took. A few moments later and 
Lilias came bounding down the portico steps two at a time, 
breathless and pink-faced from her successful struggle with 
the household tyrant. 

‘‘You see,” she said, apologetically, when she reached 
her sister^s side, “ poor Nannette had the headache, and 
I couldn’t bear to think she would have to worry with 
him all the afternoon.” 

Cerise made no reply then, but when they were in the 
woods and had reached a mound of dry, dead leaves, she 
threw herself down with a sigh. 

“ I am ashamed of myself, Lil ! ashamed to think that 
you are so much better than I.” 

Lilias flushed up to the roots of her light soft hair. 
“Are you making a joke of me. Cherry?” she asked, 
demurely. 

At that Cherry burst into a fit of hearty girlish laughter. 

“No, my dear, I was thinking how much better you 
acted with Waring than I, and how odd it is that such a 
tiny, little girl could teach her great, grown sister a salu- 
tary lesson ; and how much odder that the great, grown 
sister should need it.” 

Then, after a pause : “ When is Aunt Hepsey coming, 
Lilias?” 

“ Almost any day I believe, we may expect her. Cherry, 
you won’t much mind if I say something I should like to, 
would you?” 


AUNT HEPSEY. 


69 


Cerise regarded the wistful face, mirthfully. 

“I shan't ‘much mind/ I promise you." 

“Then please, Cherry dear, be good to Aunt Hepsey 
when she comes. It worries mamma so when you treat 
her unkindly. You know she is mamma's sister, and she 
loves her just as you do me." 

Cerise looked at the tender, little, pleading face and 
shook her head playfully. 

“ No, I cannot be induced to believe that. If she will 
let me alone I shall not maltreat her, Lil." 

“ I don't suppose she will let you alone in the way you 
mean," and poor little Lil's voice sounded despairing 
enough ; “ but she thinks it is for your good, and — and — 
to please mamma, you could certainly let her say what she 
chooses." 

“ No ! she shall not say what she chooses to me. 
Mamma is walked over by that odious old maid ; you 
children are on tenter-hooks while she is here ; even papa 
seems afraid to put his nose outside the library-door." 

“Yes, she is very, very cross," admitted Lil, lothly; 
“but she is a great Christian — everybody thinks," she 
added, meekly, seeing the smouldering fire in Cherry's eyes. 

“ She is not a Christian, Lil ! I don't believe a word 
of it. I wouldn't exchange my chance of heaven to-day 
with Aunt Hepsey, pagan that I am. Oh, yes, she. talks 
enough, in and out of season ! She accosts you as though 
she were a policeman, and abuses you in round English 
because you don't carry the Bible on the tip of your 
tongue and button-hole every new-comer while you prate 
of the kingdom of heaven. If she were consistent I 
could tolerate minor faults, but she preaches Christian 
charity while she draws her purse-strings tighter, and after 
every ebullition of her wretched temper she professes to 
have had a brand-new blessing from the Almighty." 


70 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


Poor Lil could not deny it. No inordinate word- 
painting could do justice to Aunt Hepsey^s exaggerated 
peculiarities. She sighed, patiently gathering the leaves 
around her into a pile, and rounding it with both small 
hands. 

I know Aunt Hepsey is all that you say, but it is for 
mamma’s sake as well as your own ” 

But Cerise interrupted her. 

‘^It is not at all for my own, Lil, since if I followed 
my impulse I would tell Aunt Hepsey what a stumbling- 
block she is in the way of most people, instead of the 
shining light she sets herself up to be !” 

There was the sound of footfalls in the forest-path, and 
in another moment Mr. Lindsay had emerged from the 
fading foliage and stood before them mute with awkward 
surprise. 

‘‘A lovely evening, Mr. Lindsay; though instead of 
moralizing in this dying wood Lilias and I have been 
quarrelling. I hope you were edified by any part of the 
discussion you may have heard.” 

Indeed, you mistake; these dead leaves rustle so I 
was unable to hear much more than my own footsteps.” 
And he awkwardly kicked the leaves into mounds. 

^‘Forbear, Mr. Lindsay!” laughed Cherry. Poor 
brown things ! they were bright once, and you would 
have handled them tenderly then, perhaps have put them 
in your button-hole.” 

But Mr. Lindsay put in a disclaimer. He had never 
worn even a flower in his button-hole. Whereupon 
Cherry sprang up and fastened a great nosegay of her 
chrysanthemums and roses in his vest. ‘‘Your honors 
come to you late in life,” she laughed ; “but better late 
than never.” 

And neither could see how down the vista of the future 


AUNT HEPSEY. 


71 

circumstances were waiting that would verify her idle 
prophecy in regard to him. 

‘‘I read once a little poem by one August Bell, — some- 
thing about the first leaves on a tree. I do not know who 
August Bell is, but I know her name should stand alongside 
of Jean Ingelow’s and Mrs. Browning’s, if only for the 
beauty of that one poem. It is something about a little 
brown twig that puts out many green, fresh leaves, and 
feels such a proud delight in them as it holds them out to 
be ‘ nursed by the sunshine and kissed by the dew,’ never 
dreaming of a time to come when the soft winds would 
call, and the faithless little leaves would flutter down to 
fade and die on the earth’s bosom. Then the poor bare 
twig mourns in despair for the loss of its first leaves \ but 
the spring-time comes, new leaves put forth, and the twig 
holds them out faithfully again to the sun and the dew, 
only, knowing the fate of its first leaves, it can never 
again feel the same proud delight in those that come 
after. I think I can understand how the joys of careless, 
unreasoning youth are dearer than any that in later years 
replace them.” 

Mr. Lindsay shook his head a little at her last sentence. 

“Ah! it is true,” she said, still half playfully; “we 
are happy as angels until our dolls are broken, our play- 
houses dismantled ; when is a woman ever that?” 

“You laugh with tears in your eyes. You are happy 
because you reason not.” 

“But we are happy; the little answers for us as the 
much does not for you.” 

“ You talk like a woman who had tested the world and 
found it hollow, instead of a girl just loose from school, 
with the whole wide world to choose from,” he said, in 
some surprise. 

“ No, I have not found the world hollow, but I am sure 


72 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


I can never be happier than I have been, if I have, as you 
say, the whole wide world to choose from/* 

Lilias sat in the background, listening attentively, the 
while forming her own opinions with singular unobtrusive- 
ness. They sat quite still for awhile. Mr. Lindsay, with 
both hands folded over his knee, seemed to have forgotten 
he was not alone, for a tide of expression drifted over his 
face, and so transfigured it that Cerise felt sure he was 
indulging in a day-dream, and told him so at last. 

‘‘ No, I don’t think I was dreaming, though one might 
easily lapse into such a state, on such an evening, in such 
a place. October seems to fold the whole world in a 
dreamy stillness, and the clouds near sunset are never so 
beautiful as in this month ; each one seems riven with 
roseate clefts. Have you observed it?” 

‘‘Yes. I think could the month be October always, I 
should never get out of tune. There is something in it 
instinct with the old stories we learn at our mothers* 
knees, — the life, and death, and resurrection of the soul.*’ 
“It is apt to strike most Christian minds so.** 

“ But I am no Christian.** 

She said it so abruptly that he looked startled. 

“ Does that shock you ? I don’t mean that I am a pa- 
gan, an infidel, or a scientist, as the age names those who 
pretend to have gotten beyond the Bible. I don’t pre- 
sume to say that I have reached the Bible yet. God has 
never revealed himself unto me, and I suppose until he 
does that I am no Christian.” 

Mr. Lindsay looked sad. 

“ I am sorry to hear you say so ; but the revelation will 
come in good time, I trust. God is so near to me, such 
an ever-present help in time of trouble, that I cannot 
bear to think there are those who do not share my im- 
munities.” 


AUNT HEFSEY 


73 


Cerise felt her eyes suffused with sudden tears. Here 
was this plain, awkward tutor possessed of a gift which 
seemed suddenly to have beggared her own many bless- 
ings by contrast. She could not have told why, but she 
felt in a vague sort of away that he was one to be envied. 

Yes,’^ she said, a shade irritably, for she would not 
have him think her unreasonable, ‘‘I trust it will come 
in good time. I am quite willing to believe what the rest 
of you, who call yourselves Christians, do, provided I 
have good and sufficient reasons therefor. 

Then she rose to leave, signing to Lilias to follow. 
The child came up quietly with her hat pulled over her 
eyes, and Clierry’s heart smote her, as she imagined there 
were traces of tears on her white cheeks. 

Mr. Lindsay detained her one moment when they 
reached the open road where their paths separated. 
‘‘Forgive me. Miss Hilton, but do you know anything 
of Cromwell?” 

The question was so irrelevant, seemingly, that Cerise 
could not forbear a laugh as she answered, “ Something ; 
he is a favorite of mine.” 

“Then you remember, perhaps, how near he was to 
being led astray by his repeated endeavors to hear God’s 
voice? And what he said to his friend, George Fox, 
when at last he became convinced of his error: ‘It is 
monstrous arrogance to ascribe your impulse to the voice 
of God.’ You see it was only his impulse he was follow- 
ing all that time, and you know into what roads it led 
him.” 

She bowed mutely, and Mr. Lindsay understood that 
she was not offended by what he had said, only deeply 
moved. They walked home in silence. Just as they 
neared the gates Cerise turned to Lilias, with tears in her 
eyes, “ Lilias, there is my idea of a true Christian !” 

D 7 


74 


FOR nONOR^S SAKE. 


‘‘Where? Oh, Cherry!’^ For up at the portico Aunt 
Hepsey was getting out of the carriage, and James was 
relieving the coachman of her multitudinous bundles and 
boxes. It is unnecessary to state that Cerise had not 
meant Aunt Hepsey; but with a smile at Lilias’s mistake 
she made haste to follow her up to the portico, where 
her aunt stood waiting to be greeted by her affectionate 
nieces. She was an angular woman, about fifty, with 
perfect teeth, eyes that might have been beautiful in 
her youth, for they were of a bright brown and well 
shaped, a thin nose, with a decided bridge, adapted for 
spectacles Cerise had once said, teasingly, knowing her 
aunt’s extreme weakness where her growing infirmities 
were concerned, and Miss Hepsey had never forgiven her 
the insult. But Aunt Hepsey’s most characteristic feature 
was her mouth, decisive and fretful, the mouth of a 
licensed mischief-maker. 

“Cayriz, is that you? Well, how you have grown! 
I hope your mother is making a house-keeper of you as an 
offset to your accomplishments.” 

Aunt Hepsey was as ignorant of household require- 
ments as a cat of holiday, but Cerise managed to maintain 
a polite equilibrium as she answered, “ Not a bit of it ; 
I am allowed to do as I please, as usual. Give me your 
companion. Mamma,” sending a ringing summons down 
the hall, “here is Aunt Hepsey !” 

Prince came bounding out from his bed beneath the 
portico. Miss Hepsey shrieked and gathered her skirts 
around her. 

“That great brute I James, you will tie him while I 
am here, as usual ?” 

That was another grievance attendant upon Aunt 
Hepsey’s advent. Prince, great, good-natured, harmless 
Prince, had to submit to yoke and tether like any vicious 


ACrjVT HEPSEY, 


75 


cur, just to gratify a whim of that fussy, old maid ; and 
the worst of it was that papa allowed it without a remon- 
strance. 

‘‘Aunt Hepsey, you ought to know by this time that 
Prince would not harm a fly T’ Cherry protested violently, 
heedless of the sweet, pleading face of Lilias so near her 
shoulder. 

“I suppose, Cayriz, I am the best judge of what is 
right in this matter. You know very well that if Prince 
is allowed to roam about at his will, I take the next train 
for Sheltonville.*^ 

With which enunciation Miss Hepsey, with crimson 
cheek-bones and the illusion over her angular chest stir- 
ring with ill-suppressed wrath, went in to meet her sister, 
who had been a distressed witness of the scene on the 
portico. 

“ Nasty, ugly old thing ! I wish she would take the 
next train to Shelton ville and never come back again. 
Prince I good fellow ! dear old boy ! won’t you bite her 
just for spite?” 

James went off to retail this last from his young mis- 
tress, and Lilias stayed behind to remonstrate with Cerise 
upon the advisability of keeping her opinions in reserve 
when the servants were around. 

At the tea-table Mrs. Hilton glanced furtively at Cerise 
to know how matters stood ; but Cherry, commiserating 
the anxiety in her mother’s eyes, smiled back reassuringly 
and handed Aunt Hepsey the beef-tongue. 

“Thank you, I never eat meat on a Friday,” Aunt 
Hepsey replied, piously, spreading a thin scale of butter 
on her bread. 

“Why, have you turned Romanist, Aunt Hepsey?” 
laughed her niece. 

Aunt Hepsey looked severely rebuking. 


76 


FOR HONORIS SAXE. 


No, Cayriz, only I have come to the conclusion that 
it is well to mortify the flesh.*’ 

Cherry hastily set the plate of tongue down, having 
met a queer twinkle in her father’s eye she could not 
withstand. There was a tacit understanding between 
these two in regard to Aunt Hepsey of which mamma was 
in blissful ignorance. 

‘‘ One of your class, Cayriz, a young lady of remark- 
able parts, is staying with Myra now.” Myra was the 
nonpareil niece in Aunt Hepsey’s eyes. ‘‘ She suits me 
better than any young person I have met for years. 
Think of a latter-day girl enjoying ‘ Saint’s Rest’ and 
^Thomas a Kempis!’” 

Cerise ran over the catalogue of her classmates, but 
arrived at no conclusion that chimed with Aunt Hepsey’s 
description. 

‘‘A Miss Doyle, — Aurelia Doyle,” supplied Aunt 
Hepsey; ‘‘a niece of the Hales. Myra was invited to 
her coming-out party, and the two conceived a great 
fancy for each other. She told wonderful tales of your 
triumphs, and seemed never weary of sounding your 
praises; considering she was your competitor, I think it 
was unselfish j to say the least of it.” 

Cerise’s lips curled scornfully, and a hot flush that 
looked like anger warmed her face. 

“Aurelia Doyle?” Then she stopped suddenly, the 
fire dying out of her eyes, the scornful lips relaxing into 
their usual determined curves. 

Her father noticed the strange contradictions of her 
face, and pondered somewhat concerning them. After 
tea, when she was passing his library-window on her way 
to the garden, he called her. She ran back and perched 
herself upon the arm of his chair. 

“What do you know of Aurelia Doyle, my daughter?” 


AUNT HEPSEY. 


77 


‘‘Oh, papa! were you watching me?” 

“Yes; and somehow I felt that my girl had gained a 
victory.” 

She hid her face on his shoulder. 

“ Papa, she was the only enemy I had at school ; but 
I remembered in time that there was no need to tell 
Aunt Hepsey that.” 

“And you thought right. If Aunt Hepsey sees good 
in her, there must be much there.” 

But Cerise firmly shook her head. 

“ Is there, then, no good in me because Aunt Hepsey 
fails to see any? I do believe she misjudges me pur- 
posely.” 

“No; she is only fretful and envious, but I believe 
she tries to serve God in her way. I wonder could you 
and I say as much ?” 

“Don’t include yourself in the question, papa; every 
one knows you to be the tenderest Sir Great-heart that 
ever stumbled through the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ It is I 
who do not serve God, but I mean to if I can find him.” 

“I am afraid for you, Cherry.” 

“ I am afraid for myself, papa. Some dim foreboding 
oppresses me whenever I look to the future. In my most 
careless moments that vague fear of what lies beyond 
haunts me.” 

Her head went back to his shoulder, and they sat in 
quiet for a time ; at length her father spoke with an un- 
wonted tenderness in his voice, — 

“You are my first-born. Cherry, and I have been 
proud of you since your eyes first opened to the light. I 
remember how I held you in my arms, — a feather-weight 
of flannel and cambric, — and prayed impiously, no doubt, 
‘God give my child genius.’ But in these later years I 
have learned a new prayer. It is, ‘ God give my child 

7 * 


73 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


humility.* You are not humble, my child, or you would 
not set the terms upon which alone you will receive your 
God.** 

She had been weeping, but now she raised her head, and 
there was a sound of defiance in her tones when she spoke. 

“ How can I help it, papa? I am sorry to disappoint 
you. I do try to be all you expect me to be,** with a 
weary sigh; ^‘but I cannot help my nature, blind and 
obstinate though it be.** 

‘‘You are not blind nor obstinate, my dear; you are 
strong and self-contained, but ** 

She interrupted him, getting down from his chair-arm 
and moving toward the window. 

“Of what good is it to be strong, if I am strong in 
nothing save to suffer? See how miserable my strength 
makes me ! I cannot be what you would have me on 
account of it.** 

And she went out with great passionate tears on her 
cheeks. It was the epitaph of her life she wrote that 
night in her unthinking, girlish sorrow, — “ Strong in 
nothing save to suffer.** 


CHAPTER VIIL 


‘‘ A LEADING MAN V* 

*' I’ll waste no longer thought in choosing, 

But neither this nor that refusing 
I’ll make them both together mine.” 

Goldsmith. 

It was a clear, crisp day late in November. Mrs. Hilton 
had James busy among the pots in the south window en- 
largement, called de grace^ a conservatory; so Cerise, 
rather than interfere with his work, announced it her 
intention to walk the half-mile to Seaton for some trifles 
she wanted, and to consult her mantua-maker relative to 
her winter outfit. Papa had given her carte blanche for 
all she needed, and she was determined “ Fanfarronnade” 
should not be ashamed of her country friend. She felt 
very happy and light-hearted as she walked along the 
white turnpike that evening. Her day’s dreams were 
made up of such bright anticipations; they gave her no 
time for those serious fears for the future in which she 
was wont to indulge. It did not take her long to com- 
plete her purchases ; she was not a girl who cared to 
linger over fringes and trimmings, and this evening 
her wants were moderate. There was not much to 
detain her at the dressmaker’s. Miss Maxwell, the ele- 
gant and recherche modiste of the Square, did not thank 
her customers for many suggestions, so she had a full half- 
hour of sunlight before her in which to make “Thorn- 
mere.” Passing her favorite music-store on her way out 
she could not resist the temptation to enter. The clerk 

79 


So 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


hastened to lay out a rechauffe of popular songs and 
movements for her to look over. She was bending above 
them, when a gentleman entered. 

V Do you keep anything classical?** she heard him ask 
of the clerk. 

There was such measured sweetness in his voice that 
she turned to look at him. The face was one that ac- 
corded with the voice, remarkable in its type, with 
shadows beneath the eyes, that were large and liquid, of 
a dark blue, with long lashes curling upward. It would 
have been impossible for her not to have taken in the tout 
ensemble of this most unusual face. It was one to strike 
you forcibly like a fine piece of sculpture, for there was 
no stain of color about it, and no shadow of moustache 
or whisker to break its outlines. Perhaps the gentleman 
was used to being stared at, for his features remained mo- 
tionless under the searching gaze of the pretty girl at his 
right. She remembered, however, before long of what 
rudeness she was guilty, and turned to the music on the 
counter with a little chill of dismay. 

‘‘ It is Chopin I want ; a Polonaise or Nocturne, I have 
forgotten which, — in C minor.** 

The clerk busied himself in sifting the miscellaneous 
piles on the shelves. 

Here are two,** he said, at last ; a Nocturne and a 
Polonaise in the same key.** 

The customer looked puzzled. 

I haven*t an idea which it is ; but I should know the 
strain directly if I could hear it.** 

‘‘We have a piano in the next room, sir,** suggested 
the clerk. 

But the gentleman shook his head, smiling a little. 
Cerise leaned another moment over the music she was 
inspecting, then lifted her face to the light. 


LEADING MAN r 


8l 


will play them for you, sir, if you desire it/^ 

His face lightened instantly, and the smile in the liquid, 
dark eyes was deliriously sweet. 

‘‘ Thank you ! I should scarcely know how to go back 
without it; my hostess commissioned me to procure it for 
her. I am staying at ‘Tammany’ for a few days.” 

At “Tammany!” the country-seat of one of her father’s 
best friends. She took the music from his hand with an 
arch smile. 

“Indeed! then you shall tell Mrs. Mertoun to guess, 
if she can, who helped you select her Chopin.” 

He followed her into the room where the piano sat. 
He had noticed her as he came in the store, leaning over 
the counter, as a somewhat girlish figure in gray and 
brown, with gray and scarlet feathers drooping over heavy 
braids of russet-tinted hair. Now he saw that she was 
tall and exceedingly graceful, with a figure that the tight- 
fitting coat of her walking suit displayed to perfection. 
Moreover, he noticed that the hands she placed on the 
key-board were small and symmetrical, and the eyes that 
she lifted to the music were perfect in shape and color 
though slightly imperious. It was the Polonaise in C 
minor that he wanted, and she gave it to him with a little 
laugh of girlish amusement at his confusion. 

“ And will you not be kind enough to tell me the name 
of the lady who lays me under so deep an obligation ? 
You know my friend, Mrs. Mertoun; have you no message 
for her with which to commission me?” 

“ None ! It was pleasure to try the Polonaise. If my 
friend will not recognize me from your description, then 
she does not deserve the name I give her.” Then she 
gathered up her gloves and began leisurely to draw them 
on. 

“ She would never know you from my description. 

D* 


82 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


One might as well hope to describe a sunset lucidly, — its 
breadth and scope and impossible, changeful tints 

The slight, tall figure of the girl became suddenly very 
erect ; the arch smile gave way to a hauteur of expres- 
sion that was impassable in its way, and with the proud 
lips drawn into their most unyielding curves, the young 
lady passed him and made her way out quietly into the 
street. The stranger bit his lip with intense vexation, 
paid for the Polonaise and left the •store. 

As Cerise was turning into the co.untry road she heard 
the quick beat of horse’s hoofs behind her ; in another 
moment her chance acquaintance of the music-store rode 
past, lifting his hat courteously, giving her another glimpse 
of his face with its peculiar beauty. She did not acknowl- 
edge the courtesy, — that a stranger, whom she had conde- 
scended to serve, should dare to compliment her idly, as 
though she had been some flippant house-maid out on a 
holiday, or raw country girl, ignorant of the world and 
its requirement ! And yet the man had meant no harm. 
The resistless charm of that young, dewy-lipped face had 
wrought upon him as it did upon most with whom she 
was thrown in contact, and he had unguardedly, and in a 
manner new to him, given vent to the surprised admiration 
it had evoked. 

It was growing late, — the sun had gone behind the 
mountain and a chill evening breeze was creeping up over 
the fields. She hurried on, never dreaming that half a 
mile distant, on the top of the highest hill, the stranger 
stood upright in his saddle-stirrups watching the moving 
figure in the far-off landscape, not much more now than 
a speck in his eye, wondering with tightly-closed lips 
what species of electrobiology influenced his thoughts 
toward her. 

Cerise stopped at the gates, looking up at the windows 


A LEADING MAN r 


83 

of her beloved Thornmere, glowing like molten gold in 
the yellow light from the west. The hall-door was open 
and she caught a sudden glimpse of her mamma passing 
in haste down to the basement. Up at the nursery win- 
dows Alice and Waring were flattening their noses against 
the panes, unobservant, as yet, of her ; and a moment ago 
Lilias had come gliding down the stairway, freshly dressed, 
her waving hair ‘‘shedding a golden fleece about her 
neck.” 

Cerise stood still against the gates dreaming, dream- 
ing all sorts of weird, impossible things born of the hour 
and her surroundings ; then as the last bar of sunset light 
left the windows gloomy she walked up through the dis- 
mantled garden-paths, meeting Lilias at the door, who 
took her cold hands in both her own and stooped down 
to look curiously in her sister’s face. 

“ Why, Cherry, you were gone so long ! We began to 
think of sending for you. Has anything happened?” 

“No, you fanciful child. Where is papa?” 

“ He went to see Miss Ellen and has not come back 
yet. Cherry, Mr. Hale is in the parlor ; he came an hour 
ago, and I have been wishing every moment that you 
would come.” 

Cerise threw her wrappings on the rack and went in to 
meet her lover. His coming did not chime with her mood. 
Well, what a variable, miserable creature she was ! There 
was one thing certain, she could not expect that her moods 
should be deferred to, so she might just as well begin to 
make the concessions herself. But, though she strove 
bravely to be her own bright, fearless self, the alien mood 
clung to her and made itself apparent to her lover. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, at last, bending his 
handsome head to look into her eyes. “ You look tired 
and sad, and I signally fail to interest you to-night.” 


84 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


^^Oh, no,” allowing him to retain the hand he had 
taken ; I made myself miserable out by the gates this 
evening, at twilight, by some of my absurd imaginings.” 

It was not that you doubted me?” 

Poor fellow ! he was almost eager to hear that such a 
doubt had existed, for he was forced, frequently, to re- 
member that she had never said she loved him. 

‘‘ No,” with a half-disdainful smile, I have no doubt 
of you. It was only a dreary picture I painted out 
there by myself. I imagined myself looking through 
prison bars at the happiness I had lost by my own folly. 
Oh, yes, I know it is foolish and fanciful, but, all the 
same, the impression it has made upon me will not be 
shaken aside. Have you never wept over imaginary 
grievances ?” 

Never ! nor found any real ones to weep over, as yet. 
Cherry, close your eyes one moment, — there !” 

He pressed a ring down upon the third finger of the 
hand he held. She shivered a little as the cold circlet 
bound it. He leaned over and kissed her on the eyelids : 

“ ‘ Oh, happy kiss that woke thy sleep !’ ” 

She held her hand to the light ; an emerald leaf with a 
great diamond drop of dew in the centre. He bade her 
look inside, and she read in tiny, engraved scroll, Unie 
d jamais y 

That night Cerise dreamed that she stood outside the 
gate of her own home, and that the diamond on her 
finger was hollow, with a drop of blood in its crystal cen- 
tre ; and that the remarkable-faced stranger of her Seaton 
adventure, riding past and catching its glow in the fading 
light cried, ‘‘ What will you take for your diamond now, 
poor wTetch? It is only a drop of your heart’s blood 
after all!” 


A LEADING MANT 


85 

At the late breakfast Cherry related her adventure of 
the evening before. There was some speculation as to 
who the stranger from Tammany” could be. 

I have it !” said papa, when breakfast was over and 
they were about to adjourn. It is Courtlandt ! Cecil 
Courtlandt ! Colonel is his title, I believe. He has re- 
tired on account of his health. Was he ill looking, 
daughter?” 

‘‘ 111 looking ! that man with his glorious physique, his 
tall, powerful figure !” 

It is Courtlandt. I saw his name in the ‘ personals* 
yesterday. He has been visiting at ‘Tammany.* My 
dear, you refused the acquaintance of a leading man,** 
playfully. 

“ He has the look of a leading man,** she said. 


8 


CHAPTER IX. 


CONTRADICTIONS. 

“ I grant to the wise his meed, 

But his yoke I will not brook, 

For God taught ME to read*, — 

He lent me the world for a book.” 

Jean Ingelow. 

Philip surprised Cerise in the library about twilight of 
the next day, bending with a perplexed brow over D’Au- 
bigne^s ‘^Vindication of the Protector.^* He rallied her 
a little on her queer taste. 

“I must believe in divine promptings; Mr. Lindsay 
and papa are both unreasonable 

That was the mystifying answer she made to his non- 
sense. 

“ What in the name of common sense do you mean?’* 
he asked. 

“ I mean that I never can love God until I know him ; 
it would be sheer folly for me to try.” 

His frank, handsome face clouded. It jarred upon him 
to hear those young lips disclaiming all knowledge o;* love 
of God. 

“ Don’t look upon me in that shocked sort of way, Mr. 
Hale; it is enough that my heterodoxy inspires Aunt 
Hepsey with the spirit of prophecy without you turning 
sermonizer also.” 

“I thought all girls, raised as you have been, believed 
intuitively in God,” he said, coloring a little at the con- 
cealed sneer in her tones. 

86 


CONTRADICTIONS. 


S7 

‘‘What do you mean by that?” she asked, quietly. “I 
hate that word intuition as applied to the workings of the 
human mind. No, Mr. Hale, I believe in nothing in- 
tuitively; instead, I demand solid, broad and irrefraga- 
bly good reasons for believing anything. I am not a full- 
fledged Christian like papa, who believes he sees a just 
and wise hand working in all that happens, nor like Aunt 
Hepsey, who talks of God as though he were a lackey, 
waiting patiently for any commands she might see fit to 
lay upon him.” 

She had chosen the best and, to her mind, the worst 
type of Christianity in her little world, and Philip could 
not forbear smiling at the drollery of her remark concern- 
ing Aunt Hepsey’s relations with her Maker. 

“I knew you were a fearless latitudinarian ” 

But she interrupted him. 

“I am nothing of the sort; I only fail to profess a 
theory when I cannot understand it. I know God is good 
and a father to them that trust him, only he is so far off 
and shadowy and unreal that I can’t, upon the declara- 
tions of other people, say that he is near and palpable 
and a reality to me.” 

Philip felt reassured. It was not so bad after all ; 
she was no farther from God than he, for he only knew 
and thought of him as others delineated his character 
and attributes. There was no difference, and he told 
her so. 

“ Only this difference, Mr. Hale, that you are content 
to take the impressions of others, whereas I go ahead 
until I can gain some of my own. I shall never be con- 
sent until I get as far as others have gone in this investi- 
gation.” 

There was a funny gleam in Philip’s eyes. 

“ Then you should borrow Aurelia’s library. She owns 


88 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


a whole set of theological works, and has them at her 
finger-ends/* 

And why does Aurelia study theology ?’* 

‘‘Can you ask? Aurelia has an almost insane desire 
to be popular with every one. You should hear her 
talk ‘ hounds and hares* with me. Theology enables 
Aurelia to pass muster with the Aunt Hepseys of the 
world.** 

How indignantly the beautiful eyes gleamed, how scorn- 
fully the scarlet lips curled ! “ You are fond of Aurelia? 

I think I heard you say so once.** 

“Yes; we used, like Enoch and Annie, to play at 
keeping house when we were children, and I called her 
my little wife then. I am fond of Aurelia ; she is beau- 
tiful, kind, and my cousin ; a little vain, perhaps. But, 
then, as Mrs. Mundt says, we should no more allow the 
faults of our friends to hide their virtues than we should 
think of admiring the blue sky less because the clouds 
often cover it, — or something to that effect.** 

“ And you love all your relatives because they are your 
kin?** 

“I don*t know; we Hales are considered a clannish 
set. I believe it would be a very disreputable relative 
indeed who could alienate himself from us.** 

He liked his relatives; he liked Aurelia. Her old 
enemy was to find that their paths, instead of lying far 
apart, as she had hoped, were to intersect and perhaps — 
who knew? — cross each other many times. At least, 
Philip Hale should not hear from her lips that his cousin, 
of whom he was fond, had been the only enemy of her 
petted and prosperous school-life. 

“Put up that heavy-looking book,** he urged, going 
over to where she sat. 

“It is not heavy,** she said, giving the book into his 


CONTRADICTIONS. 89 

hands. ‘‘It is one of my favorites. I love to read any- 
thing about Cromwell/’ 

“Cromwell! Let me see; I have a glimmering sus- 
picion that his troops were called Ironsides, and that he 
executed Charles Stuart, but whence the no77i de guerre^ or 
wherefore the execution, I am in ignorance utter.” 

“Then pray enlighten yourself sufficiently to admire 
the justice of the title, and the firmness of the hand that 
extirpated that voluptuous deceiver, Charles Stuart.” 

Her eyes gleamed irritably; but in the uncertain light 
he could not see that, and only laughed at her reply. 

“Softly! softly!” he said, still playfully. “Have I 
not somewhere seen that act of violence denounced as a 
murder?” 

“ Perhaps you have ; but, as I told you, I am rarely 
governed in my opinions by the judgment of others. A 
king can be a traitor as well as a clown ; then, why not a 
scaffold for a king?” 

He went over to the window, and turning over the 
leaves of the book she had given him, paused long 
enough to find what he wanted, then read, with tones in 
which a little triumph was blended with amusement, — 

“‘Yet, if this error be a great extenuation of the 
Protector’s fault, the crime to which it led him must ever 
remain in history a warning to terrify those who may 
base their conduct on their own inward impressions^ rather 
than on the sure, positive, and ever-accessible inspirations 
of that Word of God which never deceives.’ ” 

“You gave that paragraph an emphasis of which the 
author was guiltless, I think,” she said, quietly, too well 
bred to let him see how irritated and vexed she was, as 
well as worsted. She had been hit in several vulnerable 
points. The Protector’s violence was denounced as a 
crime ; she was one of the presuming few who dared to 
8 * 


90 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


base her conduct on her inward impressions, and that 
accessible inspiration to be found in the Word of God 
she had never sought. Poor, mistaken Cerise ! she felt 
degraded in her own estimation at her failure, but Philip 
dismissed the subject with a lightness that angered her. 

‘‘ He is too careless for a man,** she thought, turning 
from him with ill-concealed disgust, and his next remark 
did not go far toward appeasing the violence of her 
mood. 

“ Come, be the nice little thing that you can be. Get 
down from those speculative stilts ; I have to crane my 
mind*s neck to reach your level, and that gives one a 
moral headache. * * 

She wondered in her own room that night if she should 
often be irritated by him in the future as she had been 
this evening. Was love beginning to pall? Oh, surely 
not ! she was only in one of her disagreeable moods, and 
because the people of her little world could not fall in 
with it, she was so foolish as to attach the blame to them. 
It all lay in herself, she was sure. She was absolutely 
frightened, next day, to find a sense of relief following 
Philip* s leave-taking. And worse than that, she reso- 
lutely refused to analyze the feeling. 

By noon it was snowing. 

Mr. Hilton came into the library after dinner to find 
Cerise in her cosey corner,** as she had named it, buried 
in a great cushioned chair, and ready to cry for the fiftieth 
time over ‘‘Bleak House** and Richard*s “beginning 
the world.** 

“You live in an ideal world. Cerise,** he said, shaking 
his head in mild disapproval. “ Some day you will 
awaken in the real ; then, I fear, these fancy-fleets that 
you have set afloat will be wrecked, for you are building 
no light-house towers along your coasts !** 


CONmADICTIOJVS. 


91 

‘‘Why will you make such dire prophecies for me, 
papa? I don't live in an ideal world; I only dream in 
it," she said, earnestly and sadly. 

“But I don’t like to see you dreaming with your eyes 
open. Child, when you have lived as long as I have, you 
will realize that we have no time to waste in day-dreams.’’ 

“ Ah, there it is !’’ she sighed, a little wearily. “You 
make no allowance for my youth, no provision for the 
future, when I shall have gained puissance from expe- 
rience. You have been over-indulgent in most things, 
papa, but don’t you think you have robbed me of my 
child’s heart a little too early?’* 

She went over to him, where he sat in the warm glow 
of the fire, and stole a hand timidly into his. Her eyes 
were heavy with a weight of unshed tears. 

“ Why, Cherry, it is not that ! God knows, my child," 
— and the old gentleman’s voice quavered unsteadily, — 
“ God knows, I want to keep you a child, I want to make 
your youth a beautiful, gracious season, and for that 
reason I warn you." 

“But I tell you, papa, the warnings destroy all the 
pleasure of my youth. I can never, never be happy while 
you mark out a line for me to follow. I don’t know how 
it is, but something in me rebels, and I find myself farther 
than ever from being what you would like me to be. I 
am not so very bad, am I? I love you and mamma so 
dearly, and would rather die than give you trouble in any 
way ; I am kind and patient with the children ; I even 
treat Aunt Hepsey with tolerance ; but I can’t understand 
your dogmas: they perplex my very soul." 

She leaned her head on the arm of his chair, and they 
were both silent for awhile ; then she felt his arm around 
her, and her face lifted to meet her father’s eyes, troubled 
and serious, with a dimness in them born of regret. 


92 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


Perhaps I have been wrong, my darling ; but, believe 
me, it is because papa is so anxious to secure the eternal 
welfare of his first-born that he has pressed these things 
upon you. Be a child again, — read your pretty, tender 
books, only pray always that He may lead you to 
Him.’^ 

He kissed her with unwonted gravity and left her. 


CHAPTER X. 


ST. NICHOLAS. 

“ Why, the very air breathes of delight.” 

Hemans. 

Cerise was in her ^^cosey corner’^ again. The night 
had set in early with a frowning horizon, and soughs of 
wind blew the elm branches against the library shutters, 
with now and then a rapid rush of snow and hail that 
made her lean a little nearer the ruddy logs heaped upon 
the bright brass irons of the hearth. In her lap was a 
pile of letters just brought ; she was flushing her brow in 
an endeavor to read them by firelight. There is only 
one with which we have to do, and you may look with 
us over her shoulder at the closely-written pages that are 
absorbing her attention. 

‘‘Ma chere amie Cerise, — Now that I have written 
your pretty French name I am fairly started, which 
means much with me, as you are aware. I have no time 
for a lengthy letterf for our season has commenced, and 
I have started with such a whirl of engagements that I 
scarcely have breathing-space. Maggie Mitchell is play- 
ing ‘ Lorle,* and papa has allowed me this one week to 
attend. You know he vetoes theatres, though we have 
an opera-box all the year around. ^ Charmingly consist- 
ent, of my poor papa,’ you will say, and I can imagine 
with just what a curl of your pretty lower lip; but, en 
veriticy Maggie is divine, goes to church and all that, is 

93 


94 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


even praised by the preacher, and looks ten on the stage. 
(Cherry stopped just here, perforce, to smile.) I am 
blasee (T operas already, from the fact that I understand 
not a line of their barbarous Italian, and am only able 
to enjoy the plot while I keep my eyes fixed on the 
libretto. But you, my wise Cherry, you, who can talk 
French with the Parisiennes, chatter German in the 
Hague, and Italian at Naples, you will be able to appre- 
ciate with papa the advantages of our box. {E 7 itre nous, 
there is but one consideration that induces me to endure 
the nightly infliction : I am conscious that my bare 
shoulders and ‘ Hortense hair’ — as you are pleased to 
name it — show nowhere to quite the advantage that they 
do in the shadow of the crimson and white draperies. 
They will convert you into an Eastern Sultana.) But I 
had forgotten my motive in writing again, when you have 
not answered my last i2mo. You must change the date 
of your visit to the 23d. Pray do n.ot disappoint me ; 
give over that old-fashioned notion of spending the 
holidays in the bosom of your family, and let me show 
them to you in the metropolis ; besides, Leila Ranch, of 
Murray Hill — you remember — has invited me to take 
part in her New-Year theatricals. They always are so 
superb, with hired scenery and suits, and lovely, delicious 
little cards, printed on satin. You are the very girl to 
make them a success ; she is quite as anxious for you as 
I, and suspends the programme until you come. Now, 
won’t you? Please / please! Write me by what train 
to expect you, and I will be on the spot to meet you, — I 
and my adorable Jock, who inspects your carte in my 
double album forty times a day, through his opera-glasses, 
spy-glass, microscope, and, I will not vouch for it, that 
papa’s spectacles are not brought to do duty at the last. 
There goes the bell ; I have only one hour in which to 


ST. NICHOLAS. 


95 


make myself irresistible. Please explain away all dis* 
crepancies in these sheets by remembering that your old 
friend, through all the giddy dissipations of a first season, 
remains true to her name. 

‘‘Fanfarronade. 

‘‘P. S. — Aurelia is in town. Isn’t she the luckiest 
girl? A home among friends in the country for summer, 
and a putting-up place on the most stylish avenue of the 
city for the winter. So much for having rich relatives and 
being born lucky. Any girl can be a belle in New York 
who is pretty and rich, or rich even without the beauty. 
I make a profound salaam to fate and cry, ‘ Thank heaven 
/am both !’ 

<< F. F.” 

Cerise looked a moment thoughtfully into the bed of 
coals beneath the fire-dogs, and then refitting her letter 
into its envelope, she turned irresolutely in her chair to 
find the room flooded with light. Mrs. Hilton was knit- 
ting near the table, Mr. Hilton up to his neck in one of 
his dusty tomes, Aunt Hepsey sitting bolt upright in one 
of the yielding library chairs, the soft-cushioned back 
utterly hostile to the unbent angularity of that severely 
erect form. Hogarth at sight of Aunt Hepsey would 
have shuddered himself into a congestive chill. 

‘‘ I have a letter from Fan, mamma,” said Cerise, lean- 
ing back in her wide, deep chair, and stretching out a pair 
of slippered feet upon the fender. 

^‘Yes?” answered mamma, in an amiably interrogative 
tone. 

‘‘ She begs me to come on the 23d ; that would make 
it two weeks earlier than I had intended.” 

‘^Then we should not have you for Christmas, my 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


96 

dear/’ rejoined the gentle lady, mild horror expressed in 
her voice. 

A little pause, then Cherry turns resolutely this time. 

‘‘But I have a curiosity to see what Christmas is like 
in New York, if you would not mind sparing me, 
mamma.” 

“ Well, we must refer the matter to papa, dear.” And 
then Mrs. Hilton sighs, for she knows her own weakness 
where Cherry’s wishes are concerned. 

“Who wants papa?” asked that gentleman, indul- 
gently, looking over at the family group that until now 
had seemed anywhere than right at his shoulder. 

“Do you want to go. Cherry?” he asked, when the 
statement had been fairly made. 

“Yes, papa, I should like it.” 

“ Well, then, go, my daughter ; I see nothing to prevent 
it.” 

But over the vellum tome he sighed so deeply that the 
age-deposited dust arose in a little simoon and wafted a 
stale odor about him. 

A bustling busy week followed, filled with the pleasant 
confusion that all girls love : the gathering together of 
the little mysteries and elegancies of the toilet ; the last 
touches that are needed to make certain important articles 
complete, and the careful packing of all this wonderful 
array of finery, — a job that mamma will trust into no 
hands save her own. 

On the last day but one Miss Maxwell sent home the 
materials intrusted to her care in a shape that redounded 
highly to her credit as “The Square modiste.” Such 
ravishing costumes ! Cerise was child enough to clap her 
hands over them. She donned them one by one and 
danced down into the library for papa to study the effect. 
She was more pleased than ever when he selected as his 


ST. NICHOLAS. 


97 


favorite the very dress that had appealed most to her own 
eye, — a silk of shimmering, pearly hue, with a faint tinge 
of rose color apparent in the lustrous heavy folds ; and 
for garniture, white lace, creamy and rich, drooping in a 
bertha from the shoulders and to the elbows of the soft 
round arms, with suggestions of the same here and there 
among the gracefully training skirts. 

You are lovely in this, my dear,’’ he said, regarding 
the girl with delighted eyes. 

‘‘Pearls go with that costume, don’t they, mamma? 
Well, if the child has not ruined us with these fanciful 
extravagances, perhaps we may throw them into the bar- 
gain.” 

Aunt Hepsey looked on with scandalized eyes. 

“ Such indulgence is injudicious, to say the least of it,” 
she had said when Cerise, followed by the eager, delighted 
children, had trailed her graceful skirts from the room. 

But Mr. Hilton shook his head and laughed. 

“ Mightn’t I as well tell the child how much she is to 
me, as to let her read it in my foolish, fond old eyes ? 
No, no, Hepsey ! Cherry has not a spark of vanity as you 
mean it, and she knows how beautiful she always is to us.” 

But in all the hurry and delight of “fixing,” as we 
Yankees expressively put it. Cerise found time to dream 
and to speculate upon the world into which she was 
going. What castles she biiilt ! Seen through the glamour 
of imagination, they bore all the bright reality, the airy 
splendor, of the Fata Morgana. Surely they were never 
meant to fade in mirage ! 

So the care-free, happy days drew to a close, — the clear, 
crisp winter days that she should always love to revert to, 
filled with the music that her father loved, the laughter 
of her gay young voice. 

E 9 


98 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


Ah, Cerise, ma chere P'* cried Fan, in an affected 
little voice, as Miss Hilton disengaged herself from the 
crowd and stepped on the platform of the thronged depot. 
But at one glimpse of the dear face Fan^s ‘‘society air’^ 
vanished, her high-bred pose was abandoned, and, with a 
frantic little shriek of genuine delight, she clasped her 
friend in her arms. 

“Adorable Jock’* stood by in disgust, thinking less 
of his sister’s discrimination than ever, and that is putting 
it strongly. 

“ What fools women are ! I was led to believe she 
was something above the common,” impatiently to him- 
self. Then he scanned the face of his sister’s friend be- 
tween the courtesies of the introduction, which Fan made 
a rather short affair, acquainting them with each other 
after her own breathless fashion. 

He had only time to see a pair of limpid, dark eyes and 
a well-cut scarlet mouth, and he was not very much more 
favorably impressed by the fact that said limpid eyes were 
brimming over with tears in a remarkably childish way 
for a paragon. 

Fan had a thousand and one questions to ask Cerise 
while the carriage was conveying them homeward. 
“Adorable Jock,” neglected and forgotten, with his 
back to the horses, concluded it was not what it had 
been represented to him by any means. He had been 
enticed by Fan into absenting himself from a club-ban- 
quet for — what ? To sit by and play propriety, while she 
rattled on to her friend in supreme carelessness of his 
vicinity. 

Jock, attending Miss Hilton up the marble steps of the 
imposing-looking structure before which the carriage had 
stopped, was surprised into an exclamation at the ex- 
pressions of wonder, delight, and incredulity her face 


ST. NICHOLAS. 


99 


flashed upon him. It was impossible not to be surprised ; 
he was entirely against it as an ill-bred sensation ; but 
what did that appealing, half-afraid look in the large 
velvety eyes mean ? 

Why, Fan, Fanfarronnade ! where are you taking me? 
I don’t think my airiest habitation of an air-castle ever 
bore such a resemblance. Do private families in New 
York live in such labyrinths?” She was in the great hall 
now, with one foot on the soft carpet of the stair. 

‘‘ Now, Jock, hush ! not a word 1 I mean to tell her 
in my own time.” 

‘‘You don’t mean to say ” 

But Fan stopped Jock with a hand over his mouth. 

“I mean to say nothing, — except — please, Jock, see to 
the horses, — or something, — that is a good fellow, until 
I enlighten my friend.” 

Whereupon Jock, with a smile of genuine amusement 
in his bright, brown eyes, bowed and made his exit. 

“ Come on. Cherry.” 

Fan led the way up the yielding, moss-like carpet of 
the stairs, and through wide halls, until, after several 
circuitous windings, she ushered her friend into a square 
room, bright with crimson and gold and the numberless 
devices of wealth and taste. 

“ Fanfarronnade, how handsome your brother is !” 

Whereupon Fan devoured her friend with kisses. 

“He is as good as he is handsome; not a saint, but 
such a noble, strong fellow, you know.” 

Then she divested Cerise of hat and wraps, pulled a 
bell-rope near, pushed her friend into a great crimson 
chair, and took her old school position in front of it on 
her knees, with her arms in Cherry’s lap. “ Now, are 
you not dying to hear what I have to tell you?” she 
asked. 


lOO 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


‘‘No/* laughed Cherry; “you said you meant to tell 
me in your own time, and I thought I would wait for it.** 

“ Deliciously sensible and reasonable as ever!** fond- 
ling the hand on her shoulder. “ Now, my dear, I won- 
der how you will like it ? I didn*t tell you because — you 
are such a queer sort, you know — I was afraid you might 
not come, and I was a little afraid of what your papa 
would say too. Don*t make such owl eyes, it is nothing 
very horrible. We are living at the St. Nicholas this 
winter !** 

For an instant Cerise felt dismayed. The giant struc- 
ture was explained, the bustle and importance of the 
establishment, and the amusement in Mr. Jock*s eyes. 
And then her outfit, that had looked so beautiful and 
stylish at Thornmere, she wondered if it were all she 
needed for the St. Nicholas. 

Fan*s face was falling momentarily. A servant ap- 
peared at the door. 

“Luncheon in the library for two,** she ordered, and 
was back in a trice at Cherry *s feet. “ What is it. Cherry ? 
Have I acted very culpably? Is it another of my mis- 
takes?** 

Then Cerise went with Fan over the whole ground. 

“If that is all,** said Fanfarronnade, “it is nothing; 
and I am happy! happy I happy!’* ending in a grand 
crescendo and waltzing airily around the room. 

“ This is your room. Cherry ; do you like it ? Oh, yes ! 
we have an entire suite, — saloon, parlors, reading-room, 
library, chambers, and billiard-room. See!** And she 
hoisted her friend from the easy-chair in which she sat, 
and by dextrous loosening of divers screws, converted it 
into a couch of ample proportions. “This is for me when 
you grow tired of solitude. Do you like the bed in an 
alcove?** darting to the opposite corner of the room, and 


ST. NICHOLAS. 


lOI 


drawing aside the crimson curtains to reveal a deliciously 
inviting-looking bed, with crimson showing beneath the 
lace of the coverlid. “It is foreign and odd, so I like it. 
Celeste Bertini, an Italian staying with Leila, made me a 
convert to the idea. She is the loveliest creature you 
ever saw ; a great Italian with such eyes ! 

“ What do you mean by ‘great Italian,’ Fanfarronnade ? 
Take time to breathe, won’t you? I think this is the 
loveliest room I- ever saw,” walking leisurely from side to 
side. “ When my trunk comes you must see if I have all 
I need. Papa gave me some money for pearls. I have a 
dress that he thought I should need to wear them with.” 

Fan stopped her with an incredulous grimace. 

“Whoever heard of such a girl! Your papa actually 
suggested pearls, — offered you pearls, and you take it as 
a matter of course I You should hear my papa lecture 
when my harmless, little bills come in ! Why, I bought a 
set of pink coral at Tiffany’s last week for a masquerade, 
and I never expect to hear the last of it.” 

“ Perhaps your demands are more frequent than mine; 
one needs so little at Thornmere.” 

“ I wouldn’t average once a month, child, for jewelry,” 
she asserted, plaintively, “ and there are plenty of girls 
I know who get a new set for every dress ; indeed, they 
have three to one, I believe.” 

The country girl laughed with supreme t and healthy 
scorn. 

“ I don’t wonder that you get so many lectures. Ah 1 
here is my luggage. Now for your decision, and let it be 
honest, for, as you know, I am invulnerable on that point.” 

It was not long before the “fixings” covered every 
available chair and ottoman. Fan was in ecstasies. 
“Papa’s dress,” as Cerise had named it, came in for its 
deserved share of admiration. “It is perfect, — a poem 1” 

9 * 


102 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


pronounced Fan, and she was an authority upon dress, so 
Cherry felt satisfied. 

“This is delightful !’* cried Fan, diving underneath a 
pile of dry goods and bringing to light a corsage of vel- 
vet, profusely adorned with smoky-looking lace and pear- 
shaped pearly buttons. “You have so much of this warm, 
rich color in your toilets. What is it? Ruby? Yes. 
I had no idea you had such taste in the way of dress. 
Cherry.'* 

But Cherry quietly disclaimed any part or parcel in the 
designs that had won Fan's approval. 

“ Of course, I bought the stuff and chose the colors. I 
am glad they please you. To-morrow we will go in quest 
of the pearls. Now let us put the tiresome things away, 
and. Fan, I believe I shan't want to hear of a dress for six 
months." 

Fan rang for her own maid, then linking her arm in 
Cherry's, took her into the next apartment, blue and 
white. Fan's own impenetrable sanctum, saying, with a 
laugh in her voice, “Ah, then, my dear, you have come 
to the wrong place for the gratification of your own pri- 
vate inclinations. I wonder how many of us in the St. 
Nicholas forbear to think of a dress in six weeks ! It is 
the bane of my life; I am constantly on the qui vive lest 
some one shall get ahead of me. -Positively, I’d barter 
ten years of my life rather than appear a day behind the 
times." With which laughing assertion the door closed 
upon them. 

In the evening, under the glow of the gas-light, hasty 
Jock was obliged to retract his ill-favored opinion of the 
morning, for his sister's friend looked a queen, from the 
coronet braids of her bright, dark hair to the trailing 
folds of her dress, glowing as with the imprisoned rays of 
a thousand rubies ! And her manner ! Where had the 


ST. NICHOLAS. 


103 


country girl learned that royal air of grace and style? 
For Fan she had rapid, eager laughter; for his father, that 
stately, white-haired cavalier of a by-gone age, she had a 
deference and modesty of demeanor that won him into a 
fervent liking for his daughter’s favorite friend on the 
spot ; for him, a negligent, graceful remark now and then, 
in a voice so rich and sweet that it thrilled him in spite 
of himself. 

‘‘Your friend has one charm, — the charm of variety,” 
he said, indifferently enough, to his sister, who had come 
to his room before retiring to hear his verdict. 

“A variety of charms, you mean,” was the laughing 
reply, and Fan left him very well satisfied. 

“It was at least a concession from Jock,” and she 
nodded her sunny head energetically to its image in the 
mirror. “If Cherry can’t subdue you, Mr. Jock, you are 
a clearly cut-out old bachelor, that is all !” 

Partial Fan Farronnade ! one doubt of Jock’s infalli- 
bility had never obtruded itself into her busy, little head. 

Cherry, in her room, leaned her bare arms upon her 
dressing-room table, and laughed into her own face 
imaged within the draped mirror. She had read the 
disappointment in handsome Jock Farronnade’s face in 
the morning and its unwilling antithesis this evening. It 
was her first taste of triumph, and she enjoyed it with 
a girl’s keen zest. If that world-wise man, the “ ador- 
able Jock,” had dreamed how this pretty country girl was 
laughing at him he had hardly smoked his nocturnal cigar 
so quietly. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“NO ONE ELSE SHALL TAKE THY PLACE.” 

“ A glimpse and not a meeting.” 

Jean Ingelow. 

Fan stole into her friend’s room the next morning 
looking charmingly in her long sac-de-nuit^ the luxuriant 

Hortense hair” unbound, deserving well the distinctive 
title Cerise had applied to it. 

‘‘ Don your most ravishing neglige this morning, my 
dear; we breakfast at the hotel table,” she said, with a 
gracious little air of authority. 

It was so pleasant to know more about something than 
Cherry did. 

‘‘You are very uncommon and ‘smart,’ as we Yankees 
say, but I can beat you fairly when it comes to dress and 
its accessories. I have them all at my finger-ends.” 

She had said that once at school, and Cherry had curled 
her lip with her usual moquer indifference ; but this morn- 
ing she nearly envied her friend her one superior accom- 
plishment, watching the wonderful erection of plaits and 
puffs and distracting little side-locks that the sunny hair 
assumed under its owner’s fairy fingers. 

For her own, those thick lengths of umber-colored 
tresses, with waves into which you might lay three fin- 
gers, there was nothing to do but to brush it out and 
twist it into a coronet, allowing the short front locks to 
fall as they would over her wide brow. 

“Some time I will weave that uncommon-colored 


104 


NO ONE ELSE SHALL TAKE THY PLACET 105 

chevelure into a Frenchy chignon, if you will, or we will 
have Madame Blanche try her hand at it ; but I doubt if 
either of us can achieve anything more becoming than 
that, severely classical as it is,** Fan said when her friend 
had made her toilet and was waiting, not without some 
little trepidation, to accompany her hostess. 

‘‘Couldn*t we have had breakfast tete-d-tete, Fan? 
Would it not have been nice?** she ventured to ask, a 
little timidly, fearing lest she should overstep the bounds 
of propriety as a guest of her old school-friend. 

‘‘ Why, Cherry, you are certainly not afraid to say what 
you like to me!** cried Fan, reading the expression of 
Cherry*s face. ‘‘Nothing can change our relations, — 
remember that,** stopping on her way to the door and 
throwing a loving arm around the girl. “ Goosie, don*t 
you see I am so inordinately proud of you that I want to 
show you off? Come on ; you are surely not afraid of 
people?** 

Cerise laughed a quick, derisive laugh, “ I should think 
not.** 

And so it was in her haughtiest mood that she glanced 
down the length of the table at which they took seats. 
Fan was nodding right and left with graceful morning 
greetings to those she knew. The great hall was filled 
with the clatter of dishes, the voices of men and women ; 
yet there was order and harmony amid all the confusion. 
Cerise was delighted with the novelty of it all ; it was 
quite the pleasantest thing imaginable to breakfast down 
here. 

“ Laddesley*s sale ? Three o*clock, I believe, or some- 
where near there ; and the finest collection in the country, 
I am told.** 

She looked up quickly at the speaker, nearly opposite, 
and met the regard of a pair of dark-blue eyes that she 

E* 


io6 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


knew at once as belonging to the stranger for whom she 
had played the Chopins in the music-store at Seaton. 

An absurd tremor possessed her ; the fork with which 
she was conveying a morsel of food to her mouth fell to 
the floor with a crash that sounded like thunder in her 
mortified ears. She was suddenly inspired with a wild 
wish to fly back over the snow-bound country, — home, — 
anywhere, — away from the people that stared and the de- 
liriously sweet light of those eyes that she felt were scarcely 
absent from her face during that most trying repast. 

Ah ! are we thrown helpless in the hands of some blind 
Fate, that we so often turn deaf ears to the warning in- 
stincts of our natures ? The birds know when the storms 
are breeding and hie away to some safe covert, but we 
sit calmly waiting until they break over our heads, and 
then, in the darkness and desolation of the moment, seek 
vainly for shelter. 

Cerise fairly stumbled up the stairs at the end. 

Oh, Fan, donT take me down there again ! They 
stare so; it is abominable. I canT endure it !** 

Stare, did they? You goose! That is the genuine 
tribute of the New Yorker to merit of any description. 

I knew you would be a success, and I am happy 1 happy 1 
HAPPY 1 Colonel Courtlandt never took his eyes off 
you, the bel esprit, oi the clubs, the lion of the soirees, 
the darling of the women ! Your fortune is made, ma_ 
belleJP 

She executed a ^^^ax*-of exceeding grace and swiftness, 
clasped Cherry in speechless ecstasy to her heart, then 
threw herself panting and exhausted in the great chair to 
which she had introduced her the day before. 

Cherry’s brow flushed and she checked her friend’s 
loquacity with something of the spirit of her old school 
days. Don’t be foolish. Fan; he looked at me because I 


ONE ELSE SHALL TAKE THY PLACET 107 


dropped my fork, and then, to detect more gaucher ies in 
your country friend, he looked still longer.’^ 

That night they went to see Maggie Mitchell in 
‘‘Lorle/* Cerise looked like a Spanish senorita. Fan 
told her, in black velvet, with some odd pear-shaped rubies 
dangling from her ears and clasping the bare white neck. 
Fan had draped some Honiton flounces, mantilla-wise, 
over her head and shoulders, and the great dewy eyes, 
pleased and eager as a child^s, shone out from them with 
rare effect. 

Fan sighed a little with the momentary regret one feels 
at being eclipsed, even by one’s bosom friend, though the 
little bluster made a piquante picture enough in her stylish 
costume of blue and swan’s-down, the amber hair in a 
‘‘ Frenchy coiffure,” just such an one as it would have 
been impossible for Cerise to have borne. 

How enchanting, how lovely was ‘‘ Lorle” ! the sweet 
voice dreamily singing, 

“ No one else shall take thy place,” 

and in the end the dying lips repeating the old love-song 
that she had chanted in the German garden while the in- 
souciance of youth was upon her. 

Cerise leaned against the box in the abandonment of 
her emotion, the slender hands clasped, the wide eyes 
black as night now, filled with earnest, passionate tears, 
impatiently dashed away as they dimmed the stage scene. 

Fan, used to the play, and little moved by it, touched 
Jock’s arm. Look !” she said, and languid Jock re- 
garded the intensely moved face with interest. 

‘‘ Oh !” sighed Cerise, as the curtain fell, coming back 
to life and reality with that long-drawn breath, how 
beautiful ! how sad !” 


Io8 HONOR'S SANE. 

Then she turned with hands still clasped and great tears 
lying like dew on her flushed cheeks, heedless that the 
box had been filling gradually with Fan’s devotees, and 
that her vis-d-vis of the morning had changed places with 
Jock. The grave blue eyes strove hard to maintain their 
polite equilibrium, but the face of the girl bloomed with 
a royal dahlia color and the small white hands fell apart, 
trembling to their dainty finger-tips. 

‘‘Allow me to introduce Colonel Courtlandt, Cherry; 
my friend, Miss Hilton, colonel.” There was suppressed 
laughter oozing from Fan’s tones. 

Miss Hilton’s bow was uncomfortably haughty. 

“I am to have the pleasure of thanking you at last, 
in your proppr person,” he said, in the low voice that 
had thrilled her with its music in the dark little Seaton 
store. I 

They were on their way to the carriage. He waited 
a moment for her answer, but when she made none, bowed 
his imperial, brown-locked head and said, with indolent 
tolerance in his languid tones, — 

“You choose to ignore that episode, do you? Very 
well, only you will allow me to apologize for a seeming 
discourtesy I offered you then.” 

She put out a hand to stop him. 

“ You will say nothing of that, please. My friend, 
Mrs. Mertoun, was she pleased with your selection ?” 

“Would you believe it? — it was the Nocturne she 
wanted.” 

She laughed with genuine girlish amusement. 

“And you were so sure your ear was to be depended 
upon ; mine would have never played me false like that.” 

“ That is because yours is under better training, per- 
haps. I want to ask you one thing, — you admired ‘ Lorle,’ 
did you not ? You went to the length of shedding some 


NO ONE ELSE SHALL TAKE THY PLACET 109 

tears over the imaginary woes of the heroine, — do you 
think you should be blamed for that?” 

Why do you ask ?” she queried, breathlessly. Tears 
were the natural outcome of my emotion at the time, and 
yet tears are unusual with me.” 

‘‘Just so,” he said, smiling in a pleased sort of a way, 
and looking so kindly into her eyes that she smiled too. 
“ When I said I could never expect to lucidly describe 
a sunset, etc., I was in an unusual way giving vent to the 
emotion of admiration that the sunset inspired in me. 
Do you understand ? I cannot leave a lady under the 
impression that I have wittingly been guilty of a rudeness 
toward her. I regretted that unlucky speech the moment 
it passed my lips, but will you not believe that it was but 
the ‘ natural outcome of my emotion at the time’ ? ” 

Where most girls would have blushed, she looked up 
quietly, though the color was warm on her face, and 
said, “I am quite willing to believe you.” 

There was something distastefully personal in the whole 
affair she felt, but she could not withhold her approval 
of the manner in which he had set about righting himself 
in her estimation. 

“ Thanks I I am more grateful than you think, because 
I am sure I offended you very deeply that day. Your 
kindness has made me bold. I shall promise myself some 
rare pleasure in the way of Chopin. Miss Farronnade 
gives me carte-blanche to call upon you whenever I feel 
inclined.” 

“Miss Farronande owns no right to dispose of my 
leisure,” she said, with a smile that disarmed the words 
of any arbitrary meaning. 

They were at the carriage-door now. Fan, snugly 
housed inside, thrust a bright head from the window at 
their approach. “'We thought you were going to stay 

10 


no 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


for the farce. You have a faculty for detaining people, 
colonel, on some pretence or another,^’ she said, archly, 
with a pretty assumption of having chaperoned Cherry 
on this occasion. ‘‘Can we offer you a seat, colonel? 
No ! off for another one of those petite soupers in which 
your mess is wont to indulge at unearthly hours? Good- 
night.** And she thrust her card in his hand, with a 
laugh, saying, “Don*t forget, ever, the Thursday in the 
corner.** 

Cerise looked on in surprise. Was this the way young 
ladies in society behaved in New York ? But Jock ex- 
plained, “ All New York winks at Fan*s latitudinari- 
anism. That is the good of having a father with a purse. 
Miss Hilton, and — an agreeable brother.** 

In the parlor they stopped after the manner of girls, to 
discuss the events of the evening. 

“What a creature you are for contretemps!** said Fan, 
leaning over the grate and yawning. “I might break 
my neck for a rencontre, and never succeed as you did 
to-night. Where did you meet him in Seaton ? Tell 
me all about it.** 

Cherry*s lips were curling. 

“ You know I have no taste for rencontres. Our meet- 
ing was the most natural sort of an accident.** Where- 
upon she proceeded to give the substance of the Seaton 
episode. 

“ And is he not divine ? An invalid and a millionrfaire I 
everything to make him at once irresistible and — market- 
able.** 

“ I am not so impressed as you imagine. He says such 
blunt things in his rich velvety voice ; besides, I have 
made myself ridiculous in his eyes.** 

“ Consistent Cherry ! and for that reason you failed 
to be impressed. Well, it is true we are apt to associate 


ONE ELSE SHALL TAKE THY PLACE: 


III 


people with the circumstances that govern our meetings. 
So I can understand how, if one has surprised you in an 
awkward display, you can never feel comfortable in that 
one’s society.” 

Somehow — convenient word — Fan’s explanation grated 
upon her. She knew there was no danger of her not ex- 
periencing pleasure from Colonel Courtlandt’s society, so 
the theory did not hold good. But she would not argue 
the matter. 

Jock looked in ; the bend of the black-robed form 
caught his fastidious eye. With several rapid strides he 
was at her side: ‘‘You enjoyed ‘Lorle,’ Miss Hilton?” 

Cerise lifted a pair of cordial eyes to his face : “ More 

than anything in my life. It is in my mind now.” And 
she hummed softly, — 

“ * No one else shall take thy place.’ ” 

Jock, who was given to daubing on canvas, thought he 
would paint his women henceforth in subdued lights and 
dim velvets, with clear eyes looking upward. 

“ Chevalier Jock !” called Fan from her place on the 
rug; “you are in constant demand from henceforth. I 
want to begin showing Cherry the sights to-morrow, and 
you know we are booked for every night for weeks ahead. 
I gave up two lovely parties. Cherry, because papa said 
you would be tired after your trip, and that Maggie would 
be enough for one night, until you got used to it all.” 

With which Miss Fan stood on tiptoe, stretched her 
pretty arms out in a genuine yawn, and took her friend 
off to bed. 

“Chevalier Jock” went off to one of the parties Fan 
had magnanimously “given up” in the interests of her 
idol, with unaccountable fancies thronging his brain. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“auld robin gray.” 


My heart leaps up with a wild lament to the bars of the sealed lips.” 

Barton Grey. 

Christmas-day in New York was like a brilliant pano- 
rama to Cerise, the country-bred girl, used to the quiet, 
unobtrusive gayeties of the season at Thornmere. Her 
airy castles had resolved into local habitations. But 
through all the mirth and bewildering pleasures of the 
day. Cherry sent many fervent heart-greetings to her 
loved ones in the pleasant Maryland home. She pic- 
tured them at breakfast, lifting plates and peeping under, 
and she looked forward to no pleasure that the coming 
days held for her so ardently as she did toward receiving 
the letter from papa that would give her all the details of 
the holiday-time at home. 

The presents at the Farronnade breakfast-table had been 
numerous and elegant, and their guest had not been forgot- 
ten. In her chair she had found a folio copy of “Enid,*^ 
engraved by Dore, and Jock’s fair face had flushed a little 
when he met her inquiring eyes. Fan had wished her a 

Merry Christmas,” with a kiss and prolonged arm-clasp, 
and Cherry felt her neck suddenly enriched by link upon 
link of curiously-carved precious metal, with the ‘‘blus- 
ter’s” piquante face pendant in a handsome medallion. 
Mr. Farronnade, with a profusion of courtly bows, begged 
she would accept a trifle in token of his sincere esteem, 
which trifle, when duly presented, proved to be a faultlessly 

II2 


AULD ROBIN GRAY” 


II3 

executed copy of ‘‘The Laocoon/’ disposed on a crim- 
son velvet-backed table, of form and proportion adapted 
to set off the beauty of the copy to the best advantage. 

The day ended in a ball in the Farronnade suite that 
surpassed anything Cerise had ever dreamed of in beauty 
and luxury. It was a night of intoxicating triumph to her, 
for she had reigned, by a sudden innovation, belle par 
excellence, despite the reigning queen of the season, who, 
missing many of her favorite courtiers from the coterie 
about her person, felt her shell-bloom cheeks fade a trifle 
when she saw at whose shrine they bowed. 

A bewildering night, and yet ! Ah ! I wonder will 
we ever quaff a chalice that holds not at the last some 
subtle bitterness? A bewildering night, and at its very 
height, when she had just waltzed fifteen minutes in the 
“Sophia,” and felt no more wearied than a bird, after a 
lofty flight, she turned with her partner to find a seat 
apart from the throng, and heard her name pronounced 
in familiar tones, saw her passage blockaded by a lovely 
vision in white and swan’s-down, a costume that suited 
well the chilly eyes regarding her. 

The lips of the beautiful woman parted radiantly. 

“ Cerise ! I am more than pleased to meet you here !” 
And she caught the hand with the diamond sparkling on 
its third finger. “I have heard all, through Aunt Hep- 
sey and Myra, and I congratulate you. Philip is a prize 
in the matrimonial lottery.” Then, with a blush, ad- 
mirably counterfeited, and a little gesture of the white 
hands, infinitely deprecating, “Forgive me; no one is 
supposed to know here? But I had forgotten that.” 
And with a little gush of silver laughter she glided out 
of her sight, leaving Cerise angered and astonished in a 
breath. 

Late in the morning, Fan, throwing aside her ball-trap- 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


I14 

pings, — wonderful combinations of blue and silver, — and 
dashing the withered bluebells from her hair, was accosted 
by Cerise, lowering and impatient, after the manner of 
their school-days, — 

‘‘Fan, was this party given to me?^* 

“Yes; to whom else, pray? Oh, Sallie ! pull my hair 
out and be done with it, won’t you?” to the patient maid 
busy with the complication of puffs and frissettes. 

“ Then why did you ask Aurelia?” 

“What nonsense. Cherry I How was I to slight her? 
She is a belle here this winter. Did you conflict as 
usual?” with another wry grimace, as the structure on 
her head neared demolition. 

“ She insulted me to-night !” 

“ Why, Cherry !” Fan had not outlived that exclama- 
tion of her girlhood. 

“ Yes ; she dared to speak to me and call me by name, 
and prate about my affairs before strangers, as though we 
had ever been intimate !” 

“Your affairs?” Fan suddenly looked grave. The 
sunny masses of hair fell about her shoulders, freed at last. 
“You may go, Sallie.” 

When the door closed upon the maid. Fan turned to 
Cerise, lifting her hand that lay idly on the arm of her 
chair. 

“ Cherry, I have seen this before, of course, but I did 
not suppose it meant anything. When a girl has ‘ affairs’ 
to be talked of, then a ring like that looks serious.” 

Cherry laughed, but there were dark shadows in her 
eyes. 

“ You are very absurd.” And that was all she said. 

Poor Fan ! Her dream, as regarding Jock and Cherry, 
had suffered a ruthless ending. 

The day before the last of the year Fan moved her 


AULD ROBIN GRAYR 


friend and all her appurtenances to Murray Hill, where 
Leila Ranch and the ‘‘great Italian’^ held their gay 
reign. 

The “great Italian’^ was a very pretty dark-eyed young 
lady, Celeste Bertini by name ; “ great, in that she bore 
a title in her own land, and odd only in her quaint and 
fierce little gestures, made after the manner of punctuating- 
points. 

Leila Ranch was one of the myriad of girls you find in 
society, — graceful, polished, and beautiful when “ made 
up;’^ in the bosom of her family, a little languid and 
lack-lustre. 

Cerise was soon at home among them all. She was 
very self-dependent, and had never suffered from that 
bashful shamefaced ness that forms the affliction of so many 
very young girls. She felt ashamed of her youth, though, 
this winter. Leila Ranch was twenty. Lady Bertini over 
that, even Fan eighteen. Only Jock knew that she had 
barely arrived at her sixteenth year, and he was sworn to 
secrecy. It was only to Jock that she ever showed her- 
self in her home character, — tender, helpful, with the 
quaint, childlike seriousness that characterized her rela- 
tions with her father. Not that careless, pleasure-loving 
Jock was the least bit fatherly in manner or physique, but 
there was a bond between them unlike any that had ever 
existed between herself and a stranger. 

It was not well for Jock, poor fellow ! The sweet maid- 
enljr face had come to haunting his dreams, and, when 
the two had vacated St. Nicholas, he found himself in- 
venting fresh excuses every few hours to gain her side. 

They were delightfully busy — the girls at Leila’s — diving 
into old trunks and chests that had belonged to Leila’s 
mother, bringing to light yellow satins, old brocades, and 
pointed-toed slippers with marvellous heels, compared 


ii6 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


with which our modern Grecian-Bend shoes were inno- 
cent in the extreme. Cerise found intense pleasure in 
rummaging through these relics of an age that seemed so 
remote to her. It was sheer agony to be awakened from 
her fanciful dreams over the lavender-scented garments by 
Fan and Leila, eager over the pros and cons of certain 
costumes. 

‘‘If I only had an after-piece, something quite new, I 
should be the luckiest girl in New York,’* Leila had said 
to Fan. Whereupon Fan proposed she should ask Cerise 
to improvise a plot. 

“She is quite capable of doing it, I am sure, but she 
looks so haughty and impassible. I should not know 
how to approach her.” 

That was before the young ladies were domesticated in 
the Murray Hill mansion. Now, to her surprise, the girl 
who had awed her when they had met in the world was 
in her own morning-room one of the most witty, engaging, 
and approachable of young people. 

So the request was not long in forthcoming. They had 
whiled the morning away in a manner enjoyable to girls 
who have not yet arrived at the nil admirai'i age, talking 
over the “Ernani” of the night before, criticising the taste 
of a certain gaudy little lady of their circle, exchanging 
opinions regarding the costumes for the coming theat- 
ricals, with, lastly, a little dip into Leila’s book-shelves. 

Cerise looked up yawningly from Moore. Lady Ce- 
leste was lying back in an easy-chair, her hands filled 
with gold and silver fringe with which she had been 
trimming a jacket, her rich olive face in the warm shadow 
of the curtain. 

“ ‘ Nourmahal ! Nourmahal !’ you set me dreaming of 
the East,” she said, looking at the Italian as one regards 
a picture in a good light. 


*^AULD ROBIN GRAYR I17 

Leila lifted her head quickly from the lounge where 
she had been luxuriating with a novel. 

‘‘There was something musical in the sound of that/’ 
she said, “and that reminds me; I want an after-piece 
for my theatricals, — something new. I can think of 
nothing. Won't you be kind enough to supply us one ?” 

I^eila had preferred the request very carelessly, but Ce- 
rise saw an eagerness behind it and a slight uneasiness 
withal. 

“Fan is the instigator of this plot !” she cried. 

“Yes,” confessed Fan from her favorite posture on the 
rug. “ Now, be accommodating, — do, and fix one up 
for Leila; it will not trouble you much.” 

But Cerise laughed in scorn at the bare idea. 

“Do you take me for a machine. Fan? Twenty-four 
hours in which to accomplish a thing of that sort !” 

She threw her Moore from her rather vehemently and 
arose from the depths of the great chair. 

“ Where are you going?” queried Fan. 

“To the piano,” she answered, laconically. 

Leila looked at Fan, when the door closed after Cerise, 
with a dismayed I-told-you-so expression on her face. 

“Never mind!” advised impervious Fanfarronnade ; 
“the piano is her temple of the Muses; see if she don’t 
come back with something. You haven’t lived with 
Cherry Hilton as long as I have. She’s a genuinely rare 
one and no mistake I” 

Down in the drawing-room Cerise played aimlessly for 
awhile snatches of “ Der Teufel,” “ Tannhauser,” and 
other of the weird popular music of the day ; then she 
drifted into her favorite Beethoven movements. She had 
been told by connoisseurs that Beethoven was her pecu- 
liar province, and she was "proud that it was so. Her 
fingers glided over the exquisite passages of the “Sonata 


ii8 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


Pathetique” with a facility and smoothness that bespoke 
her thoroughly at home with the subject. 

She could not tell how long she had played when some 
species of magnetism warned her that she was not alone. 
Turning on her stool, she peered into the dimness be- 
hind her, but there was no human form visible. She 
went back to her music, but the soul had left it, and still 
that indefinable sense of prescience annoyed her. 

‘‘There is some one near, I know,’^ she said aloud, a 
ring of impatience in her voice ; and this time she arose, 
encountering- as she did so the steady, sweet light of 
Colonel Courtlandt^s eyes, where he stood midway the 
apartment. 

He came toward her. “ Don’t stop playing, please ; I 
have been in Fairyland.” 

“ How long have you been here?” she asked. 

“ The servant was leaving with my card when you came 
in at that rear door.” 

“ And I have only just found it out !” Again the ring 
of impatience in her voice. 

“That was my fault. I sat in an angle back there, so 
that I might not disturb you ; but when you commenced 
upon Beethoven, I felt that I should like to see your face. 
I think my steady gaze must have annoyed you ; but it 
was impossible for me to resist looking at you. Your eyes 
and mouth interpreted Beethoven even better than your 
fingers.” 

What could she say to this ? She had met this man but 
a few times, and yet he chose to feel very free with her. 
Her eyes fell, the color overflowed its limit in her cheeks, 
and for once she lost her readiest weapon, her unassailable 
self-control. How had this man the power to move her 
so strangely? Why, her blood ran riot in her veins at 
the first sound of his deep, slow voice ; her heart flut- 


AULD ROBIN GRAYR 


119 

tered, her hand trembled beneath the peculiar charm of 
his grave, beautiful eyes. Did he see her weakness and 
take advantage of it? It was but the silly timidity of a 
school-girl she told herself, but it was none the less mor- 
tifying and palpable on that account. 

She sat down again, and fell to thrumming a bass ac- 
companiment. He took a sheet of music from the stand. 
“ ‘ Auld Robin Gray.^ Do you sing this?*' 

“Not often." 

“ Has there ever been a sequel ?" 

She answered him literally : “ No ; it would have de- 

stroyed the interest in Jennie. Happy people always 
grow self-absorbed and fat, like Willis's Julia." 

He laughed. “Do they? Then you don't mean to 
be happy. Well, there is a volume of tragedy in the little 
song as it is." 

She stopped thrumming, her face awakening from its 
enforced listlessness. 

“ Perhaps," she ventured, “we might convert it into 
an after-piece for Leila's theatricals. Won't you help 
me?" 

He smiled at the eager childishness of her mood. 

“ ‘ Pleased with a rattle and tickled with a straw,' " he 
laughed. 

But she protested: “Indeed, if you had a chance to 
redeem your reputation, when it sorely needed redemp- 
tion, wouldn't you grasp it? The girls up-stairs are call- 
ing me all sorts of names, mentally, because I find myself 
unequal to the task of producing an original after-piece in 
time for to-morrow night. Now if I could make anything 
of this! Won't you help me?" 

“ Upon conditions." 

She waited to hear them. 

“ That I may act the Jamie to your Jennie." 


120 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


The rebellious blood surged into her face. 

Fan will be Jennie/’ she said, decidedly; with her 
light hair and pi nk-and- white face she will make a thor- 
ough Scotch girl.” 

^‘But Jennie must be a wide-browed, clear-eyed 
woman, with braids of dark-brown hair filled with red 
lights, and a mouth the ideal of scorn and tenderness 1” 

He was looking down upon her with such undeniable 
tenderness in his glance that her face grew pale to the lips. 

‘‘You are too exacting. Colonel Courtlandt; we must 
make the best of our material.” 

“ Which, being of the best, precludes the use of these 
miserly restrictions upon your part.” 

She lifted her eyes, with indignant fire in them, and 
with a ray of winter sunlight dazzling his own, the 
gentleman smiled down upon her indulgently, as though 
she were a fractious child, whose moods must be humored, 
even though he knew them to be foolish and unreason- 
able. Oddly enough, the glance quieted her ; she went 
back to her random playing, a vague feeling of pain and 
alarm at her heart. And for a moment she was torn by 
such conflicting emotions that she could have wished her- 
self dead. Poor child ! it was a hard problem she had set 
herself to work upon. 

“ I have offended you again,” he said at last, sadly. 

She threw her head back with the old fearless gesture. 
“No; why should I be offended? Come, you will help 
me separate this into acts, will you not ?” 

For a moment an answer foreign to her appeal seemed 
trembling upon his lips, but he suppressed it. 

“ And I am to be the Jamie to your Jennie?” he per- 
sisted. 

“Yes, if you will have it so.” 

At least he should see that the absurd timidity she had 


AULD ROBIN GRAY. 


I2I 


hitherto displayed in his presence could be conquered 
also at will. 

The trio in the morning-room burst into ejaculations 
of delight when she presented herself an hour later with 
a well-arranged pantomime of ‘‘Auld Robin Gray’* in 
three parts. 

I think it will be quite new,” she said ; ‘^but, Leila, 
you will be put to some trouble to procure the necessary 
scenery ; we will want rocks and a water-view, with a ship 
in the offing.” 

But Leila laughed the difficulties down. 

You have to thank Colonel Courtlandt for the sug- 
gestion, and most of the arrangements, for that matter. 
I never remember to have been so dull,” with a little 
weary sigh. ^‘Apropos, did you get the colonel’s card ?” 
she asked, stopping on her way to dress for the evening 
festivities. 

Nelson brought it the moment you left; he asked for 
you only,” Fan said, with some acerbity. ‘‘The colonel 
presents himself in a new phase. I don’t think he has 
ever been known to visit a lady in New York. Didn’t I 
tell you your position was secured ?” 

5{i ^ ^ ^ 

“What do you think of it?” asked Leila of one of 
her audience, when the curtain fell upon the first act of 
“ Auld Robin Gray,” in which Cerise, in Highland snood 
and wimple, stood on a boulder waving a farewell to the 
vessel that bore her Jamie away. 

“Was it not perfect?” asked Lady Celeste, bending 
her bright, full eyes on the lady to whom Leila had put 
her query. 

“Perfect!” echoed Aurelia Doyle; but there was a 
baleful light in the steel-blue eyes when the curtain rose 
upon Jennie, pale and weary-eyed, with the old father 

F II 


I 


122 for honoris sake . 

and mother in the background, and handsome Jock, in 
gray wig and whiskers, with preternaturally bright eyes 
for one of his age, pleading in the character of ‘‘Auld 
Rob*^ for the right to maintain them all. The last scene 
and the climax is faultless ! 

Jennie, with wimple and snood discarded, the abundant 
hair dishevelled and falling loosely about her shoulders, 
sits on the ‘‘stane beside the door’* gazing with wild, 
incredulous eyes at ‘‘ Jamie’s ghaist.” 

“ I could not think ’twas he 

Till he said, * I’m come hame, my love, to marry thee.’ ” 

Jamie, in sailor’s garments, pale as a statue, with gaunt 
despair in his dark-blue eyes and the shadow of a death- 
less love upon his life. 

For a moment they gaze at each other, while the audi- 
ence look on breathlessly ; a moment, in which the eyes 
of the girl darken , and dilate and grow strangely terror- 
stricken, in which those of the man widen and brighten 
and overflow with luminance, then the graceful, defiant 
head falls, the strained hands relax, and a shrill, despair- 
ing cry thrills the crowded audience to its core, — “ Wae 
is me ! wae is me ! ” 

Colonel Courtlandt, in Jamie’s guise, reached for a 
fold of the curtain and spasmodically pulled it down. 
‘‘Cerise!” he whispered, touching the drooping figure 
of the girl, — “ Cerise — for the love of God — tell me, is it 
truth ?” 

That wild cry had been wrung from whitening lips, and 
he trembled in the blissful uncertainty of the moment. 

“ Is it truth, that you love me. Cerise, — as I love you?” 

A shudder passed over the figure, shrinking in strange 
cowardice. She lifted her face, and her lips were still 
colorless. 


*^AULD ROBIN GRAY: 


123 


Ah ! is the curtain down ?’* she asked, striving vainly 
to steady her voice, that shivered and trembled as though 
she were in a fierce, cold gale. Poor child ! what a brave 
effort she made to hide her heart from him ! His eyes 
irradiated with tenderness. 

My little one, my love ! is there any need of this be- 
tween you and I? You must have known that I had 
meant to win you for my own.*’ 

She struck his hand from her shoulder with an impet- 
uosity that amazed him, but the ineffably mellow, sweet 
voice maddened her. 

Then the stage was inundated, and gay voices pro- 
claimed her triumph. Leila threw her arms around Jennie 
in a tumult of gratitude, and held out a gracious hand to 
Jamie. ‘‘You have made my theatricals a success, you 
two,” she said, joyously. “Cherry, you were born for 
the stage, I believe.” 

Cerise laughed, a riante little laugh, turning her face 
upon Jamie. 

“I have been told that before,” she said, and he saw 
that her eyes were shadowless, her lips red and scornful. 
Had she traded upon his credulity, and was she only an 
actress after all, that young, fresh-looking thing, with the 
purity of her country life and breeding clinging to her 
very garments, — seemingly ? 

The thought maddened him. 

“ Come help me resume my own character,” she said, 
putting her hand behind her to adjust her drapery, that 
had become loosened from its temporary fastenings. It 
was caught in a resolute grasp. With an angry face she 
turned to confront Colonel Courtlandt, the sunny light 
of his blue eyes clouded, the tranquil indifference of his 
face broken up. 

“I am mad with doubt, — I have no time to choose my 


124 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


words. You will go with me somewhere, anywhere? 
You must 

His words were the words of a madman, but, as he told 
her, he had no time to choose them with this wild, impe- 
rious passion running riot in his brain. 

By what right do you command me? Sir, you forget 
yourself!^* 

He could not choose but see how brilliantly beautiful 
she was in her outraged pride. His voice sunk to its old 
low pitch with the old ring of music in it, as he replied, 
‘^By the right you gave me just now, — through the testi- 
mony of your eyes and lips.’* 

Ah, that voice with its deliriously sweet intonations ! 
It exorcised the demon of anger, it did with the girl as it 
would. She looked over her shoulder at the gay crowd 
near the footlights, noisily discussing her triumph, then 
allowed him to lead her beyond the curtain, into a little 
draped and flower-laden niche, fit enough for lovers’ 
bower. 

‘‘And now,” he said, having seated her, and standing 
before her with stern lines about his mouth, “I want the 
truth ; was it acting to-night alone that made your lips 
white, or is there a reason why you should hide the truth 
from me ?” 

It was well for her that he had banished all tender sweet- 
ness from his voice. 

Her lips wreathed scornfully: “Are you, then, so dull 
of ear that you fail to detect the difference between the 
ring of genuine feeling and the counterfeit clink of skilful 
acting ? I congratulate myself upon my success, since I 
have deceived you, — the invincible !” 

“ And you have imposed upon me thus when you must 
have known ” 

“ I knew nothing,” she interrupted him, hotly. “ Oh, 


AULD ROBIN GRAY: 


why did I come here/^ she burst forth, ‘‘ to be misjudged, 
and watched, and made miserable by strangers !** 

Her face was in her hands. He pulled them down and 
looked into her eyes. 

‘‘ Cerise, forgive me, darling ! have / misjudged you? 
have I made you miserable?** 

The frightened eyes betrayed themselves, the miserable 
truth was out, though she, poor child, was last to know it. 
He was satisfied ; he covered the trembling fingers with 
eager kisses ^ he would have wrapped his arms around her, 
but she waved him off with a gesture of affright. 

^^What is it?’* he asked. “ Why do you struggle 
against me? Do you not see that you have not the 
power to withstand me?** 

She gave a low cry at that, fearing its truth, as she had 
never in her brave, careless heart feared anything before; 
then in a passion of blended emotion that gave no out- 
ward sign she took the single ring she wore from her fin- 
ger and handed it to him. Had she been older she had 
never done that; now her passionate shame maddened her. 
He gave it back to her without a word, offering her his 
arm, the delicacy of his ever pale face enhanced by an 
undeniable pallor. She put her hand firmly within it, 
her step as unfaltering as his own. He clasped her fingers 
closely just before they faced the stage occupants, holding 
her eyes in thraldom with the mesmeric power of his own. 
‘‘ ‘ Unie d jamais' I" he quoted, with the finest inflection 
of scorn in his voice. ‘‘ A rare piece of mockery ! for, 
my Jennie, you love me ! my darling ! my darling !’* 

And he saw, with gentle commiseration in his own, the 
beautiful proud eyes grow tender with a rush of tears. He 
leaned over, touching the soft wavy locks that fell over 
her brow with his lips. Then out into the crowd, among 
the giddy breath of flowers and the flash of the footlights. 

II* 


CHAPTER XIII. 


IN THE DUST. 


‘'And I grope and stagger with feeble feet through the shades of my 
life’s eclipse.” — B arton Grey. 

In her own room, after garrulous Fan had been disposed 
of and the curtains drawn closely to shut out the early 
morning light, Cerise Hilton covered her face with her 
hands, humbled to the very dust. 

And this was what it had meant ! The breathless 
timidity that had al-ways overwhelmed her in his society ; 
the foolish blushes that rebelled at all control; the de- 
licious thrill that shot along her veins at the lightest tone 
of that rich, slow voice. 

Oh, God, that she should have yielded to this ! She, 
who had plighted her troth to one noble, high-souled 
man, held in bondage eye and heart by anothe-r, and that 
other the peer of all that was rarest and most excellent in 
manhood ! 

It was a long and bitter communion she held with her 
soul that night. Deluded Cerise, deprived of the youth 
that should have safely havened her then, rushed into the 
fatal mistake that had wrecked many a life before her own, 
and will go on wrecking lives until mothers no longer 
refuse their children a covert within the safety of home. 
This girl, thrust forward from infancy because God had 
gifted her with precocity, was now reaping the fruits of 
the unjust system. 

She loved this man ; he had said truly ; her whole soul 
126 


IN THE DUST, 


127 


went out to him with a spontaneity of emotion she was 
powerless to check ; he satisfied her inborn fastidiousness 
as no one ever had ; his manner and movement were alike 
harmonious. In the few times they had met, he had ruled 
her moods with an unobtrusiveness that left her no room 
for surprise. They met on equal ground ; there was no 
dividing line between them. She loved him ! she loved 
him I 

At last she knew the meaning of those dissatisfied in- 
quiries she was in the habit of propounding to herself 
upon every fresh visit from Philip. She remembered now 
that she was glad to see him leave the last time he came 
to Thornmere, and then, with utter dismay, she remem- 
bered, too, their conversation in the library, when he 
had told her it gave him mental headache to follow her in 
some moods. 

He was but a frank, thoughtless boy; too thoughtless 
for her grave nature, too careless even for its lightest 
aspect. And yet she was bound to him by her parents’ 
consent; she wore his ring in token of his claim upon her 
life ; nothing could alter that fact : it stood unchange- 
able. 

Of her own free will she had taken this burden upon 
her, never dreaming of this hour. God knows she was 
honest when she had promised him constancy, with a firm 
belief in her own capacity to be true to him. And yet, 
upon her first glimpse of the great world, had she forgotten 
all the tender bonds of the quiet home-life that lay behind 
her? Had the brilliant, intoxicating beauty of this new 
life blinded her to her duty? Was she fickle, foolish, only 
a common-souled girl among the many, after all that had 
been exacted and expected of her in this first year of her 
glad, gracious womanhood ? 

Then the proud nature of the girl entered a protest. 


128 


FOR HONORIS SAFE, 


He was unlike any one in the world ! Was it only proof 
of her weakness that she should have succumbed to so 
much beauty and goodness ? 

Her eyes grew bright and sparkling; her face flushed. 
No ! it was nothing to be ashamed of. It might make 
her miserable, but never ashamed. She would find 
strength to be true to Philip, indeed, but her heart would 
not submit to yoke and tether tamely as her mind, and so 
for one brief moment her heart exulted in the glory of 
having loved him. It was something to bear that knowl- 
edge into the dark of the near future, — he had loved 
her ! 

And so the tie should stand. 

I made no provision for a need of this nature; and, 
though I am weak, — fickle, perhaps, — I have too much 
honor to break a contract that involves more than my 
own personal comfort.” 

And so she determined upon the right course, as it 
looked to her. 

God pity her ! if it was mistaken, it was also heroic. 

‘‘ What have you been doing to yourself?” Fan asked, 
at their late breakfast, ‘‘You look as I have often seen 
you after a last day’s examination.” 

Cherry smiled faintly, passing her hand over her lips 
to hide their tremor. 

“You must remember, I am not used to such constant 
dissipation. I mean to rest for the next few days, so 
please exclude me from all plans for that length of time.” 

Later in the day several cards came up, among them 
Colonel Courtlandt’s. 

“To see Miss Hilton,” Nelson said, as he handed it 
in ; but Miss Hilton shook her head resolutely. 

“ No, Leila, I am not even ‘ at home’ during my en- 
forced rest.” 


IN THE DUST. 


129 

And so they all went off and left her to the dreariness 
of her own thoughts. 

By the time Cerise was ‘^rested’* they were ready to 
go back to the St. Nicholas, and then the weeks went by 
in a whirl of gayety. 

Fan said it had never been so gay, and asked her friend 
if she enjoyed it, scarcely satisfied with the sad smile that 
accompanied Cherry’s assent. A gay and bewildering 
vista had been opened to her, and, alas for life and its 
antithesis, a barren desert stretch of suffering. 

They had met since that eventful night only in the 
whirling circles of society, and exchanged commonplaces 
in the pauses of its giddy rhythms, but his eyes asserted 
their magic power to the full as resistlessly, her heart 
throbbed in unison to his voice as wildly ; she felt her 
power to withstand him growing daily weaker and weaker. 

And yet she had no thought of yielding. 

There had been no words between them, but there 
was a mute appeal in the dark-blue eyes, to be answered 
every night, and the demands upon her strength were 
making her weary and pale. 

Was it to be thus forever? Was she always to awaken 
with this gnawing pain at her heart? Were her noondays 
to be darkened by the shadow of her wretchedness, her 
evenings chilled, her nights haunted with fever-dreams? 
Or, once married to Philip Hale, with his happiness to 
make, his heart to brighten, would not the ever-present 
grief be lulled to rest, if not to oblivion ? 

Such weary, futile questions she asked herself, seeking 
ever to answer them by fresh appeals to Duty, — 

“ The world’s curse, yet loved of Love !” 

and for a while she would reason herself into calmness. 

‘‘What if my life be not the ideal life I planned it,” 

F* 


130 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


she said; others have been disappointed before me. I 
have at least my heart to fall back upon, — my heart, that 
shall always hold him above all else in the world !** 

Ah, it was bitter diet !” 

It was Fan’s ‘‘ Thursday evening.” Cerise was dressing 
listlessly enough for it, and, at Fan’s instance, she laid 
out the ruby-colored corsage that had won her encomiums 
at an earlier date. 

Colonel Courtlandt was sure to be there. She had 
managed to avoid him hitherto. Two of Fan’s even- 
ings” she had spent in the quiet of her crimson-draped 
room with a headache, to serve as excuse for absenting 
herself ; but this evening she could find nothing available 
to exempt her from doing duty in the salon, unless she 
should subject herself to remarks, and that she was not 
likely to do. 

She never knew how it happened ; she was only con- 
scious of a slow, sweet voice that worked wild havoc amid 
her pulses, a pair of eyes that blinded her to all sense 
of duty, honor, everything, except the resistless magic 
they imparted, and she found herself pacing the length 
of the apartments on his arm, trying vainly to compre- 
hend the casual remarks he was making. Then the last 
door closed upon them, shut out the swaying, bright-hued 
crowd, and they were alone in the small, octagonal room 
that Mr. Farronnade had fitted up for reading. He 
seated her, then drew a chair near her side. “ Do not be 
alarmed,” he said, in a voice of infinite tenderness, “I 
have nothing to say that will annoy you,” for he saw that 
the gloved fingers in her lap were tremulous. ‘‘I want 
to talk with you to-night. It seems long since we have 
met.” 

‘‘ I have not been well,” she faltered. And then all the 


IN THE DUST. 


131 

dreary wretchedness of the weeks that were passed smote 
her heart afresh, and her eyes filled from sheer self-pity. 

Have you ever reached that climax of suffering ? If 
you have you will feel for her, as she sat there hearing the 
voice that was dearest to her in all the world, and feeling 
it was sin to be thrilled by its cadences as she was. If 
you have not, then do not sneer, for I warn you we are 
none of us scathless while we have human hearts and 
pulses. 

‘‘And you are not looking well, poor child. Never 
mind, this cannot last forever; you will come to a de- 
cision presently ; and then — and then my lips will be 
unlocked.’’ 

He smiled reassuringly. Her real intention had never 
entered his mind. She was such a child ! She had 
bound herself to some school-boy lover of her child- 
hood ; that could not stand in the way of their love for 
each other ; it was unreasonable to suppose it. 

“If I could have known,” she said, looking up sadly 
into his face, — “ if I could have known the doom that 
awaited me here !” 

“You would have come all the same. Doom ! that is 
too strong a word ; fate, put it. And what is there so 
appalling in the fate you have met in me?” 

He was determined to treat the matter lightly, though 
he guessed something of the struggle going on within 
her from the quiet sadness of her face. 

She rose in a determined way, bringing the fervor of 
her glance full upon him. “You have nothing to 
say that I want to hear ; please take me back to the 
rest.” 

“ I have nothing I dare say,” he said, his voice, for the 
first time in her memory of him, dashed with a sore im- 
patience, “ until you give me permission, until you resign 


132 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


that odious motto in your possession/’ with a glance 
down at the hand where Philip Hale’s . ring broke the out- 
line of the snowy glove. 

‘‘Ah ! your honor keeps you silent, while I ” 

She paused ; an ominous glitter in her eyes. 

“A woman can dispense with honor. Is that your 
creed ?” 

The clear scorn of her voice cut him deeply. 

“I would have you guard your honor, always, as your 
dearest possession,” he said, firmly and sadly, taking her 
hand and putting it within his arm. “ When you give 
me leave to do so, I shall tell you how I think you can 
best do that in this matter.” 

As usual, the calm voice quieted her into submission. 

“ Oh !” she cried, vehemently, and with a warm wave 
of color mounting to her brow, “what is the use of it 
all ? — of life I mean, — it is not worth the trouble we take 
with it.” 

He lifted the hand on his arm to clasp it between his 
own. “ ‘The crown comes not to the unpurged brow, nor 
the palm to the coward hand,’” he quoted; and the 
sweet, steady light of his eyes made her tremble. 

“ Have you — that hope?” she faltered, in a whisper. 

She read his answer in the tremulous line of the lips, 
the mute, humble bend of the noble head. 

She bowed her own. 

“And I have — nothing!” 

There was a ring of despair in the words that stirred 
him into unwonted emotion. 

“Ah, poor child I No wonder, then, your life seems a 
trouble to you. For me, it makes my greatest comfort to 
know that there is a Hand above all, holding the end of 
the clue, and if we follow it patiently it will lead us home 
at last. You are too proud, my ” He checked the 


IN THE DUST, 


133 

endearing word upon his lips. Let me help you in this , 
matter.” 

“I need no help,” she said. ‘‘I know what is right, 
and I will do it. We will go back now, if you please.” 

And he is a Christian !” she said to herself as she lay 
quiet and wakeful, while Fan slept unconsciously by her 
side. ‘‘A Christian here, in this gay world, where no 
one seems to think of anything but pleasure. Oh, my 
heart ! how many more virtues will you find in him ere 
your misery is complete !” 


12 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“good-by, my love, my love!” 

“And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all.” — Son^ of the Night Watches, 

Cerise sat in one of the parlors at the St. Nicholas 
looking down upon the shifting scene under the windows, 
unconscious that she made a picture in artist Jock’s eyes, 
with the graceful bend of her head and the warm hues of 
her dress floating about her. 

He had come in with his hands full of evening bulle- 
tins, and he littered the carpet with them in his haste to 
gain an ottoman at her feet. 

He looked at her eagerly, in the fading sunset light, and 
Fan, standing by, saw something in his face that made her 
turn and leave the apartment with a film over her bright 
blue eyes. And Jock looked on at the face which had 
come to be the fairest and sweetest in all the world to him, 
until the light faded from the sky and the great bells over 
the city had proclaimed the laborers’ day over. 

She had nothing of the perfect outline that went to 
make up his ideal faces, but there was a wide expanse of 
brow, a thoughtful light in the large dark eyes, a delicate, 
shifting carmine in the cheeks that he might vainly try to 
portray upon canvas ; a wondrous, winningly tender grace 
about the whole face, as the subdued light fell upon it, that 
he had never seen on canvas yet, and he mentally con- 
cluded that he knew not where a charm could be added 
for one to be taken away. 

134 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE r 


135 


The 7th will miss its gallant colonel in the parade to- 
morrow/* he said, at length, trying to speak indifferently. 
‘‘ Did you hear? Courtlandt had a hemorrhage at break- 
fast this morning ; you should have seen the dismay among 
the ladies.** 

She turned her face a little out of the light. 

^‘Is he indeed delicate? I always imagined it one of 
Fan*s pointless jokes.** 

He took no notice of the question. Her voice was 
slightly tremulous ; was he a fool to imagine she guessed 
what had brought him there just now ? 

Poor Jock ! if he could but have known how far from 
him and his desires her heart was just then, he might have 
spared himself some bitter mortification. 

Miss Cherry, I wonder if you will send me away 
empty-handed if I ask you for something this evening ?’ * 

She had no glimmering suspicion of his intention. If 
it had been any other than careless, nonchalant Jock, she 
might have been on her guard, for suitors were not new 
to her in the life she led. So she encouraged him with 
her interested smile to pour the whole story in her ear, 
and then she was so shocked and distressed that she did 
not know how to tell him that the boon, for which he had 
pleaded with all the warmth of his honest heart, was not 
within her gift. 

She sat still for a while with her face in her hands, and 
Jock moved from her side into the middle of the vast, 
spacious apartment, growing dim with evening shadows. 

Her silence dismayed him. 

She came over to him in the gloom at last, and he saw 
that her lips were trembling, her eyes wet with regretful 
tears. 

Oh, Mr. Jock, that this should have happened ! I 
cannot, I cannot !** 


FOR HONOR'' S SAKE, 


136 

Poor Jock grew blind for one moment, but with a brave 
effort he cleared the mists away. 

The girl was weeping with the impetuosity of a child. 
He took her hands in a gentle clasp. 

‘‘ My dear,*^ he whispered, in his kind, soothing voice, 

do not cry so ; it is no fault of yours. I might have 
known that you were not for me;’^ breaking down at the 
last words with something that sounded like a sob in his 
voice. 

She only wept more uncontrollably at that. 

‘‘ Oh, Mr. Jock she managed to say at length, ‘^you 
deserve some one far better than the wife I should make 
you. It is, that I am engaged to be married. I am bound 
to another.*^ 

She gave him the ring he had often noticed upon her 
finger. Jock turned to the chandelier and a clear flame 
sprung into life. He read the inscription, Unie d 
jamais,^' and at that his lips, beneath the silken blonde 
moustache, quivered like a woman’s. 

And you love this man?” he asked, huskily. 

Over the earnest, sorrowful face swept a tide of crimson 
color. 

“ We are to be married — ^some day,” she answered, with 
white lips. 

‘‘ I might have known,” he said. ‘‘ Young as you are, 
you are too fair not to have been appropriated by some 
lucky fellow. It is a mistake I have made, that is all ; 
don’t you bother about it.” 

He slipped the ring back to its place upon her finger. 

‘‘Ah, my dear !” he said, pressing the little hand with 
unconscious fervor, “ I think, if this were my ring that I 
am fitting upon your finger, and you were wearing it for 
me, the world would not hold to-night a happier man 
than I!” 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE r 137 

Then he left her, looking back only once to where she 
stood beneath the chandelier, wondering blindly why it 
was her fate to make misery for others as well as herself. 

She turned away, walking wearily through the halls and 
along the stairways until she reached the Farronnade suite. 
It wanted an hour of dinner, she would stop in the library 
and beguile her weary brain into forgetfulness, if that were 
possible, among the well-filled shelves. 

But the patient pain in kind, brave Jock’s voice haunted 
her ; her heart ached when she thought that, through her, 
he was suffering so vainly. 

Slow footsteps came along the hall, and stopped at the 
door. 

Cerise sprang from her chair, her head poised proudly, 
the color coming to her cheeks. 

Not a moment too soon ; the knob turned and Colonel 
Courtlandt entered. 

She moved with careless grace a step or two to meet 
him. 

‘‘Excuse me,” he said, “I have the entrte to this 
apartment ; and yet, I am glad to meet you here, — you 
will explain, perhaps, the meaning of this.” 

He laid a billet on the table near which she stood. 

“That explains itself. Colonel Courtlandt.” 

“ It does not,” he said, decidedly. He took it up and 
read : “ ‘ In a moment of weakness you surprised me into 
a revelation that I would have died rather than have made 
when in full possession of my senses.’ What does that 
mean ? When did I ever take advantage of any weak- 
ness of yours?” 

She made a movement to pass; he laid a detaining 
hand on her dress. 

“ Stay, I beg of you ; you need not fear me; I am too 
weak for that !” with a low, gasping shudder. 

12* 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


13S 

You were ill ; they told me ’ ' But the words died 

on her lips, for the handkerchief he took from his mouth 
was stained with fresh crimson blood. 

She laid a violent hand on the rope. 

What will you have?’* she asked, breathlessly, bend- 
ing over his white face. 

Wine ; that is all. There is no need for alarm. You 
will stay?” 

She despatched the servant for wine, then leaned 
nearer, laying a light hand on his brow. In the dire 
extremity of the moment she forgot everything but his 
peril. 

He took the hand gratefully in his own, held it to his 
lips, then released it. She shivered, for on its fair sur- 
face there was a faint, scarlet stain. 

Oh, God ! was it his life-blood ebbing away like that ? 

But after a draught of wine he was apparently stronger. 

‘‘Yes, I was ill this morning; and I credit your cruel 
note with the cause of it.” 

“There was nothing cruel in my note,” she said, 
sadly. “I told you my decision the best I knew how.” 

“Before you go any farther I want to tell you this, — 
they say that in all probability I shall be dead when the 
spring flowers bloom. Can you understand?” 

She looked at him with wide, dry eyes, — the look she 
had given “Jamie’s ghaist,” fourfold intensified. 

He took her two hands, looking up into the eyes that 
cared no longer to veil the truth. The mask had fallen, 
and she felt so wretched just then that she would scarcely 
have cared for the whole world’s sneer. 

“Ah,” he sighed, “how often it is that chances for 
happiness meet us too late in life 1 My love, if we could 
have known each other earlier !” 

“It is early for me : I am only sixteen.” 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE T 


139 


The dreary pathos of the reproof wrung his very soul. 

‘‘And now you will see that it is not for myself I have 
come to plead, but for you. I could not ask you now to 
give your life into my keeping, even were you free to give 
it, because — my own is drifting away from me.**’ 

“Ah, do you not know how gladly I would come to 
you, if I dared, even for that short time!** she said. 
“ But you will not die ; you must not I Surely something 
can be done for you, — something that has not been 
done !** 

“ Yes, there is a chance, I believe,** hopelessly. “ God 
forgive me if I sin ; but, child, what would life be to me 
without you ? and you say you are determined to marry 
this Philip Hale I Has not your own reason told you that 
you will be committing a deeper wrong every day of your 
sad life, when once you are married to him, offering him 
the semblance of a love that belongs to another ? Where 
one is an unintentional betrayal of faith, the other is 
perjury before God.** 

“ If I could see one little loophole of escape, do you 
not think I would seek it?’* she asked, her voice trem- 
bling with emotion. “You cannot feel as I do; you do 
not know him , — how brave and noble he is, and how fully 
he trusts me. You know nothing of the nature of our 
engagement, — how long I tried him with my irresolution, 
and how patiently he bore it. Then, when at last I re- 
warded him with the answer he had waited for, you cannot 
know how plainly he proved to me the ardor and excess 
of his devotion. And now to go back to him with the 
disgraceful story that I have betrayed his generous trust, — 
to tell him that my heart, which he supposed safe in his 
keeping, has gone out to another, — I can never, never do 
it 1 I will not 1 I had rather die than deal him such 
dishonor !** 


140 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


She had been speaking rapidly, with head bent down, 
and she did not lift it to note the effect of her words. 

‘‘Perhaps you are right,*^ he said, after a pause, in 
which his breath came quickly, “but I cannot think so. 
Every instinct of my soul warns me that the course you 
are bent upon pursuing is the wrong one. Suppose he 
should know, some day in the future, what an unloving 
wife he held against his heart, what would be left to him 
then 

“But he shall never know!** she cried, with defiance 
in tone and eye. “I shall guard my miserable secret 
closely, I promise you, and there will be none to tell it !** 
“ Do you dare say that ?** he asked. “ I shall be dead, 
I know ; you have nothing to fear from me ; but are you 
sure there are no feathery seeds afloat upon the winds 
waiting to be wafted into the future?** 

“Oh, why will you torture me so!** she cried, with 
almost a shriek of anguish, dropping her head on the 
table from sheer inability to hold it up. 

He leaned over the bent head, laying his cheek against 
the soft masses of brown hair, and tears of exceeding 
misery gathered in his eyes. 

“ My darling ! my darling!** and he folded his arms 
about her, “give it all up, — this unnatural struggle, — 
and come to me. Let me have you while I may. Per- 
haps — who knows? — we may win the old life back in Italy, 
by the sea,** his voice leaping into a hopeful cadence, his 
tones rapid and eager as a child*s. “Who is this Philip, 
that he should defraud me of the one thing I covet in 
the wide world ? He has health and long years of life 
before him. I have only you !** 

And while he leaned over her, with those wild words of 
pleading on his lips, a door at the end of the room opened, 
and a young lady in a rich Parisian walking-toilette 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE P 


141 


Stopped, aghast, at the tableau that met her scandalized 
eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance, and judi^ 
ciously retired before they, in their abandonment of 
misery, had observed her. 

Cerise drew from his arms, no trace of tears on her 
white face. 

. “No, nothing could make it right. I must go back 
to Philip, — but, oh 1 you will not give up the struggle 
until you have regained a portion, at least, of your old 
strength. I could never think of you as dead, there is 
such vitality about you : your very hair seems to breathe. 

She laid a hand caressingly on the short, curling locks. 
He put up his own and held it there. 

“Then you are determined in this?’* 

“Yes; as I have told you, there is nothing left for me 
to do. Now, you will let me go?” with a piteous dreari- 
ness in the low, sad voice. 

He covered his eyes with his hand. She took his other, 
laid her face against it a moment, then with a rain of 
soft, passionate kisses relinquished it, and he heard the 
sound of her footsteps retreating behind him. 

Fan, dressed for dinner, grew tired of waiting for her 
friend, and was going in search of her, when she suddenly 
presented herself at her room-door. 

“Why, Cherry!” exclaimed the girl, looking with 
genuine alarm at the wan face and colorless lips, “ are 
you sick?” 

“ Oh, Fan ! yes; let me lie down ; I am sick, — almost 
dead, I believe !” 

Fan helped her to bed, uttering little ejaculations of 
profound wonder and sympathy. 

“ Oh, Fan ! say something to me ; put your arms around 
me, dear. I — am homesick.” 


142 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


Fan Farronnade discarded fan and handkerchief, and, 
regardless of multifarious flounces, popped on her knees 
by the bed. Cherry was suffering, — Cherry, her old 
school-idol, the chosen friend of her heart, was troubled 1 
The loving solicitude in the bright blue eyes was some- 
thing beautiful to see. 

Has that hateful Aurelia Doyle said anything to pro- 
voke you?’^ she whispered, her face on the pillow near. 
“ She said you were making an effective tableau down in 
the library, and her eyes looked spiteful in the extreme.** 
Cerise felt her heart stand still with terror. But Fan per- 
sisted in her anxious questioning. 

‘‘Was Jock with you? did he say anything to you? My 
poor Jock loves you. Cherry, and there is no hope for him, 
— is that what troubles you?** The little bluster*s voice 
was quivering, and there were mists over the blue eyes. 

Cherry laid an arm around her neck, bringing the 
anxious sweet face close to her own. 

“Fan, Fan Farronnade!** she sobbed, “why did I 
come here ? You were all so happy and satisfied before. 
Now — oh, if I were dead! if I had died before to-day !** 

It was the commonplace, weak cry of an ordinary girl 
after all. 

At the first taste of real suffering she turned coward and 
was ready to find the easiest way out of it all. That is 
what she thought in her wretched humility and shame ; 
yet we know she was brave and strong as few are. The 
easiest way out of it all, was not the way in which one jot 
or tittle of her principles was to be sacrificed. 

Fan Farronnade read Jock*s sentence in the passionate 
self-accusation of that cry. For one moment her heart 
swerved a little from its old allegiance. Was Jock to 
suffer from the caprices of a girl who felt herself superior 
to every one else ? 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE 143 

She wished, too, that Cerise had never come, that she 
had stayed behind with the lover who had won her, Philip 
Hale, that great open-eyed boy, who had in some remark- 
able way managed to ingratiate himself into her fancy. 

Only for a moment, though, was Fan thus untrue to her 
best friend, and for that moment of distrust the white, 
pained face upon the pillow smote her with a powerful, 
unconscious reproof. 

‘‘ My poor Jock I if you could but have loved him, 
Cherry T* she murmured, between bursts of exceedingly 
bitter tears. ‘‘ He is so noble and true ; you do not 
know the value of the heart you have put from you.^* 

“ Do I not asked the girl, bitterly. Oh, Fan, don’t 
torture me so ! No one can know better than I what I 
have lost, and what misery I have made for those who 
have been all kindness and goodness to me. I think,” 
musingly, ‘‘ could we dream ever so vaguely of the pit- 
falls that lie in the paths we are so eager to tread, we 
would be careful how we left the safe, quiet walks of our 
home-lives.” 

But troubles can come to us anywhere, at home as 
well as abroad,” protested Fan. 

‘‘Yes,” assented Cerise, lying with hands clasped over 
her head and a dreary hopelessness in the wide, dreamy 
eyes; ‘‘ but it seems impossible to associate the thought 
of trouble with Thorn mere, where papa and mamma are, 
and where I have always been so happy.” 

Those imaginary evils, papa’s warnings, and the petty 
trials of the old-time looked very shadowy and unreal 
now in the face of her first deep sorrow. Then there 
was silence in the pretty room for a while, until Fan, 
with the air of one who persistently thrusts aside all an- 
noyances, no matter how subtle and bitter, arose, shaking 
her skirts into position, asking Cerise the very common- 


144 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


place question, ‘‘ Would she have dinner in her own 
room?” 

I want nothing, Fan, nothing at all,” she answered, 
in a voice that, despite Fan’s resolution to the contrary, 
brought the mists up thick again into the blue eyes. “ I 
think, if you will excuse me, I will not come down 
to-night.” 

‘‘ But, you had an engagement with Jock.” 

‘‘That is cancelled, you know,” she said. So Fan 
turned and left her alone. 

Not alone, with all those wild, importunate thoughts 
peopling the dimness of the chamber. Myriads and 
myriads of forms, — and all bearing the face of the man 
from whom she had parted just now, — all looking down 
upon her with those rare, blue eyes, all smiling at her with 
that lambent, sad smile, until she wondered if she were 
going mad or dreaming. 

She aroused herself after a while, sitting erect, and 
looking about her with an effort to identify the objects in 
the room. “ I am feverish,” she said, clasping her hands, 
that were hot and dry, together ; then she went over to 
the dressing-table and turned up the gas in the jets about 
the mirror. There was a light rap at the door, — Fan’s 
own maid with a card for her. She took it up indifferently. 

“ Who gave you this, Sally?” she asked, not turning to 
look at the girl, who stood twirling her apron as though 
she had something to say. 

“ The colonel himself, miss; and he said I should say, 
if you please, miss, that he would be in the parlor, and 
that he would not detain you but a few minutes, miss.” 

“Very well, Sally. You need not stay; I can dress 
very well alone, thank you.” 

She did not know why she was so careful in the mat- 
ter of dressing to-night. In a mechanical sort of way 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE P 


145 


she forgot nothing, not even the minute spray of white 
flowers that he had noticed once lying in among the 
braids of her bright dark hair. 

Colonel Courtlandt started with a visible movement 
when she entered the room and stood before him, waiting 
to hear what he wanted of her. 

The emotions of the past few hours had left fearful 
ravages upon his face. It made her shiver to see how ill 
he looked. 

“You should be in bed,** she said. “You look ill 
and spent. Oh ! why will you use yourself so recklessly?’* 

He drew a chair near the chandelier. “ Will you not be 
seated ? I was in bed, but there was so much that perplexed 
me I could not rest. Cerise !’* he cried, with a vehement 
gesture, “ I cannot reconcile myself to what you are about 
to do. I cannot accept your decision ; I cannot, indeed.** 

She sighed wearily. 

“ Was it for this you summoned me ? If I had known 
I would not have come to you. Is there need to prolong 
the misery of this parting?’* passionately. 

“Yes, there is need, so long as there is hope that you 
will renounce your pride for a moment and listen to 
reason.** 

“ My pride !** she echoed, indignantly. 

“It is nothing less than pride. Cerise. You believe 
you are capable of judging as no one else is ; you are not 
willing to appeal to any other tribunal than your own 
well-trained mind and conscience ; your impulse tells you 
that your word should be kept, regardless of consequences, 
and your reason tells you that it is not possible to keep 
the strict letter of your word under the altered circum- 
stances. Your impulse outweighs your reason, so you 
mean to sacrifice your happiness and that of another in 
the guarding of a figment — an impulse !** 


G 


13 


146 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


^^That is sophistry !” she said, with scornful lips; ‘^it 
is sophistry, and you know it. If I do this thing, — and 
I will ; I am determined upon it, — it will be because I 
dare to keep my honor scathless, regardless of everything 
else. I am proud and impulsive both, I grant you, but, 
oh ! you are cruel when you attribute my decision to either. 
You know, too well,” she sobbed, holding out her hands 
in her passionate appeal, ^‘what it costs me to come to 
this conclusion. You know how desolate my life will be ; 
you know that another can never take the place you fill 
in my heart.” 

Irresistibly the circumstances of their first legitimate 
meeting flashed upon him. She wore the dim, rich velvet 
that she wore on that night when she had seen ‘‘Lorle,” 
and unconsciously her lips had just repeated the sweet, sad 
refrain that had brought tears to her eyes : ‘‘No one else 
shall take thy place.” That had been but two short 
months ago, and she stood before him to-night all the 
happy girlhood banished, the radiant shadowless light of 
youth gone out forever from her life. He checked the 
impious wish that trembled in his soul. God’s hand held 
the clue ; it was for him to follow patiently, the tangles 
would straighten at last. 

“My poor darling! God pity you! God pity us 
both!” 

He would have taken her in his arms there if he had 
dared, — taken her and held her, hushing the passionate 
pain of her heart and his with tender, soothing caresses ; 
but he could not do that, he could only look at her with 
his soul in his eyes, as though by the very intensity of his 
gaze he would draw her to him and merge her existence 
forever into his own. 

One, looking in upon them, would have been at a loss 
to comprehend such a novel mode of entertainment as 


GOOD-BY, MY LOVE, MY LOVE r 147 

those two indulged in for a full hour afterwards. Fan 
would have said that Cherry was in one of her moods, 
and that the colonel was respecting it, as she had been 
wont to do through all the years of their intimacy. 

Can you see the picture ? 

Those two sitting apart amid the luxurious appoint- 
ments of the room in utter quiet ; the man with his head 
thrown back and his fine, pale profile showing like marble 
against the velvet of his chair ; the girl, — a woman now, 
— with the marks of a pitiless world upon her brow, erect 
and unyielding, with one hand clasped tightly in the 
velvet folds of her dress and a blind stare in the great, 
dark eyes, looking neither to the right nor left, but 
straight forward. 

At last the silence was broken by the man moving in 
his chair and leaning toward the corner where she sat. 

‘‘ Cerise, I swear, — and I leave you to judge whether I, 
a dying man, would go to my grave with a falsehood on 
my lips, — I swear, I believe your course to be criminally 
wrong, opposed to every sense of justice and honor. It 
is a mistaken, distorted view ; heroic, my poor child, in- 
somuch that you peril your own happiness upon your firm 
conviction of what you believe to be your duty, but piti- 
ful in all else. You perjure yourself daily when you give 
your life to a man, knowing that your heart belongs to 
another. If not for me, for yourself, forbear I Oh, my 
darling ! — forgive me ; let me call you what I please this 
once more, — it is a bitterness exceeding death from which 
I would save you ; no principle of honor demands such a 
sacrifice !” 

He had only time to see that her face was paling and 
flushing, that her hands were trembling with an emotion 
she could not command, when the door from the hall was 
thrown open, and a servant appeared ushering in a stranger, 


148 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


a tall young man, with bright, frank eyes and a well-knit, 
graceful figure. 

Cerise, with one frightened, imploring glance in the 
face of the man she loved, turned to meet him to whom 
she was bound by every tie of honor and truth. 

He did not see at first that she was not alone, for Court- 
landt sat in shadow, and the man whom Cerise loved had 
an opportunity to judge of the truth contained in the 
girl’s revelation concerning the devotion of Philip Hale. 
And the youth had the grace of a god ! His voice was a 
tonic in itself, so fresh and bonny and strong. It was 
not strange that the charm of his presence had wrought 
upon her, and that she, a child, should have mistaken 
the earnest liking his qualities inspired for love. Cerise 
checked his demonstrations with a quiet glance toward 
the corner where Courtlandt sat. 

The introduction was soon over. Cerise wondered 
afterward what she had said on that occasion, but there 
was nothing in Philip’s truthful eyes to tell her that she 
had blundered. 

Then the colonel arose to go, saying, when he had 
gained the door, One word, if you will be so kind. Miss 
Hilton, and your friend will excuse me.” 

She came over to where he waited. 

‘‘ What if I should take the matter in my own hands, — 
he looks generous and brave !” 

But there was a passionate denial in her voice, as she 
replied, ‘‘ I don’t mean to be forgiven ; I ask no forgive- 
ness. Go, if you are really interested in what I have to 
endure; go, and forget, as I shall strive to do.” 

He held out his hand. “ Good-by, Cerise, my love ! 
my love !” he whispered, the beautiful eyes strangely wan 
and faded. I shall die, — but you — you will live and 
suffer!” 


CHAPTER XV. 


CERISE HALE. 


“ To-day the lists are set and thou must bear thee bravely, 

Tilting for honor, duty, life or death.” 

Tupper. 

She was home again, that giddy whirl of pleasure with 
its maddening episode of pain was a thing of the past, — 
a dream, in which she had lived and suffered a lifetime. 
When she had gone back to Philip in the Farronnade 
parlor, it was with some wild idea of throwing herself upon 
his mercy and telling him all ; but his first words struck 
a death-blow to the momentary courage despair had given 
her. 

‘‘If I had not trusted you so entirely,’* he had said, 
“ I would have been maddened by jealousy and doubt in 
these weeks, for I have received wild reports of your 
belledom and conquests. But you had said I might always 
be sure of your constancy, so I rested easy.” 

“ And you were not once afraid ?” she asked. “ Re- 
member what a child I am, — only sixteen.” 

“I remembered; but I remembered, too, what an un- 
common child you are, how much stronger and truer than 
most women, so that thought brought me comfort.” 

He could not see that the face he drew to his shoulder 
was blanched with the misery of her last struggle with 
duty, — her last, — she made no more effort after that. They 
went home the next day, and Cerise was petted and made 
much of, to an extent that must have satisfied the most 

13* 149 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


150 

importunate demands. And yet there was not one but 
noticed the change in her. 

What ails Cherry?’^ her father asked one day of his 

wife. 

^‘Nothing, my dear/^ the little woman had replied; 
‘‘she is only quieter than usual; resting, I guess, after 
her gay winter with Fan. The child has not been used 
to such dissipation.** 

“ Since if you stood by my side to-day 
Only our hands could meet, 

What matter that half the weary world 
Lies out between our feet.” 

It was Cherry*s voice floating out from the parlors. 

Mr. Hilton stopped in the library and deposited his 
mail, shook the grate, called James to put on more coal, 
then went over to where Cherry was singing, 

” So take whatever you can from me, 

And leave me, as you will ; 

The dear romance and the poesy 
Were mine, and I have them still.” 

A swift wave of color came into her face when her father 
entered. She gave him a bright little nod and launched 
into one of his favorite airs bravely, but between the 
selections, while she waited to think of something else 
that pleased him, her left hand wandered in a dreary 
monody always with that undertone of sadness pulsating 
through it. His keen ear was quick to detect it. 

“ Daughter, is anything troubling you, or is it only that 
you find our home-life dull after the visit you have had?** 

She was shutting the piano down now, preparatory to 
leaving it, for it had grown quite dark as they sat there. 
She blessed the friendly darkness that veiled her face from 
him. 


CERISE HALE, 


151 

Oh, papa, you know I am glad to be home with you !’* 
putting her hand in his arm and walking slowly out of 
the room with him. “I am not well, I believe; I have 
such restless, feverish dreams and bad nights.’^ 

That quieted his fears in a measure, and to confirm her 
suspicion she was too ill to come down next morning, a 
low nervous fever that kept her in bed weeks. When at 
last she was able to move among them as of old, it was 
with a wan, white face and weary step that held in them 
no semblance of what they were used to in her. 

A letter came from Fan late in the spring that changed 
the whole aspect of Cherry’s plans for the future. You 
shall read the paragraph that has to do with our story. 

You knew, did you not, that Colonel Courtlandt went 
to Europe a few months ago? Jock has told me this 
morning that his physicians have hopes of his ultimate 
recovery, at least that he may live for many years. His is 
one of those queer cases in which a hemorrhage seems to 
relieve the lung. Mamma had hemorrhages before Jock 
was born, and yet she lived to see me a tall girl. Is it not 
strange that the colonel never called to bid us good-by ? 
He has not entered our drawing-room since you left.” 

Philip came the day after Fan’s letter. Cerise had 
grown more like her old self by this time, though the 
proud curves of the mouth and the quick, bright laughter 
were gone. 

‘‘Philip,” she said to him, where they sat together on 
a sofa of the front parlor, “ you asked me some time ago 
to shorten your probationary term if possible. I think,” 
with a flush on her pale face, “if you ask papa, he might 
be willing to spare me — next fall.” 

Philip, in the surprise of the moment, questioned her 
almost rudely. It was unlike any concession she had ever 
made. 


IS2 


FOR HONORS SAKE, 


What has impelled you to tell me this?’* for she had 
stopped him peremptorily whenever he had broached the 
subject of taking her from Thornmere. 

‘‘The reasons are many, Philip,” she said ; “ but the 
paramount one is that I want to make you happy,” with 
a faltering of the voice that he mistook for timidity. 

He left her, after ardent thanks, to go straightway to 
her father, and she sat quietly and awaited his return. 

He was gone a long time, but when he came back, it 
was with success written upon every feature of his glowing 
face. 

“Next fall I am to have you, my darling, — Septem- 
ber, — four long tiresome months to wait !” 

“ And when he comes back well and strong I shall be 
married, and there will be nothing to fear from him.” 

Then she turned the lamp out, and Lilias heard her 
moan out many times during the hours she lay awake by 
her sister’s side. 

The summer months were on them. Cerise made no 
attempt to revive the gayeties of the past season. “ Fan 
was here last summer,” she said, when her father entered 
a protest on the course she was taking; “she was fond 
of it all, fonder than I ; besides, you grew tired of it, 
papa; you reproved me more than once for my light- 
heartedness then,” with a sigh. 

“ But there is a mean in most things. I don’t like to see 
you make a nun of yourself any more than a butterfly.” 

“ I cannot please you, papa,” she said, sadly ; “ but if 
you will have it so, I will go out among them all and live 
the old life over again.” 

But it was weary" work ; the days grew darker as they 
grew longer ; the sigh was oftenest near her lip than the 
song, until, seeing how weakly she was giving up to her 


CERISE HALE, 


153 


wretchedness, she put a firm seal upon her thoughts and 
set about taking up her burdens bravely. Shall I tell you 
that she succeeded ? Ah ! woman’s will can oppose bar- 
riers to most of the puerile annoyances of life, but when 
it comes to troubles of the heart, resistless, impetuous, in 
which her own volition has borne no share, will goes a 
small way indeed. 

I have said she made no further struggle with duty, but 
I have forgotten one last attempt for life and liberty, just 
as a prisoner wrenches at the bars in sight of the scaffold 
and executioners. It was two weeks before the day set 
for the wedding that she wrote the following in a letter 
to Philip : 

“ I fear I am not the one to make you happy. Oh, 
think well ! If in the long future you and I should fail 
to satisfy each other, what would be left to us?” 

And Philip, honest, unconscious lover, seeing only 
fresh proof of his darling’s solicitude for his comfort, 
answered, — 

‘‘ What chimeras you conjure wherewith to frighten 
yourself, my dearest ! I shall prove by my devotion and 
entire satisfaction how groundless are your fears.” 

And the preparation had gone on apace. 

Mamma, notable housekeeper that she was, apart from 
the pain of parting with her oldest child, was filled with 
pleasant schemes to astonish the friends and relatives by 
a display in her line, and was overwhelmed by chagrin 
when Cerise peremptorily prohibited it. 

‘‘ Let it be quiet and unostentatious, mamma. I never 
did approve of a gay wedding, and it seems to me since 
my visit to Fan that I shall never be able to tolerate any 
sort of gayety again.” 

Lilias’s sorrowful eyes brought her to her sens^sk^^ 

‘‘However, do as you like, mamma,” gher'added ; “I 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE: 


154 

am very selfish ; you have the right, certainly, to conduct 
your daughter’s wedding as you think proper.” 

So the dear little woman was not disappointed after all ; 
only, as Cherry would not have a full-dress night wedding, 
but would leave directly after the breakfast, the invitations 
and entertainment had necessarily to be limited accord- 
ingly. 

The four long months” have passed, and it is Cerise’s 
wedding eve. Fanfarronnade, Myra Hilton, and Leila 
Rauch are looking over Cherry’s wedding finery in an 
upper chamber, and peering at each other with interested 
faces in the twilight. 

Cerise has stolen into the library, where a slow fire burns 
in the grate ; the room contrasts cheerily with the leaden 
skies and chill drizzle of rain outside. She drops in her 
cosy corner and leans over to the fire with a faint shiver. 
She has not come there to indulge in painful thought or 
retrospection, but the old associations smite her keenly 
when she remembers how short a time she has yet to be- 
long to them. With the bright hair rolled back and fall- 
ing in its single long plait below her waist, the hands, 
small and tender, clasped on her knees, the quivering lips, 
the wistful eyes, she looks more a child than we ever re- 
member to have seen her. Her father thinks so, too, 
coming in with Waring hanging to his hand. 

My dear,” he says, trying to speak naturally with that 
great, dry lump in his throat, ‘‘are you going to follow 
th4t deranged fashion in vogue and hide to-night?” 

“No, papa,” she answers. “I don’t think I could 
support to-night alone ; as it is I feel little enough like 
leaving you all.” 

Then she draws a deep breath of relief at having spoken 
freely once in these weary weeks of espionage upon word 
and thought. 


CERISE HALE, 


155 

Can you not stay awhile, dear?’* he asks, as she rises 
to leave the room. 

She strives to steady her voice. ‘‘I think not, papa; 
mamma wanted the girls to be ready for seven-o’clock tea, 
and I am sure they have forgotten.” 

Out in the hall she listens a moment, breathlessly; 
James is busy with luggage at the door ; she hears the 
ring of strange voices on the portico, and flies up the 
stairs in such a reckless, rapid way that she nearly comes 
in collision with Lilias, on her way down with a tiny lamp 
in her hand. The child is dressed neatly, with her light 
hair hanging in a soft cloud about her face, but there is 
an unquiet light in the blue eyes, and the bright, sweet 
lips are tremulous. Cherry passes her with a gay excla- 
mation and a laugh, but Lilias looks after her with blind- 
ing tears and a sob of pain. 

In the parlors, at night. Cerise, dressed faultlessly and 
looking her best, is so brilliant and charming that Philip’s 
friends are unanimous in their approval of his choice. 

Dandridge, ‘‘best man,” says he has not acted fairly 
in appropriating her so soon, that she is too young to 
know her mind, perhaps if she had possessed the oppor- 
tunity to look around her she might have preferred another 
sort of man ; stroking his tawny moustache complacently 
and enjoying his friend’s confusion. 

Cerise, hearing the jesting remark, colors with anger, 
and feels a sharp, quick pang. It is not so easy as she 
thought, this being criticised and approved by Philip’s 
friends. 

But there is a limit to human endurance, and she finds 
herself making excuses soon to absent herself for awhile. 
She passed by the paraphernalia for the next morning 
lying out in state on the bed in her own room ; the soft, 
lustreless pearl of the vestures winning no comment from 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


156 

her, as it might have done had she been less absorbed at 
that moment. 

“Cherry, have you seen your travelling dress? Miss 
Maxwell seemed distressed that we had to wait, but the 
fringe only came by last night’s express.” 

It was mamma, showing a conclave of admiring rela- 
tives the details of her daughter’s bridal trousseau. So 
Cherry went back and listened at the platitudes, was po- 
lite and interested and all that was required of her until 
the door closed upon the last one. 

“I declare,” said an elderly lady to Mrs. Hilton, as 
they were descending the stairway, “ Cherry looks and 
acts as though she were twenty-five instead of seventeen. 
How rarely in one so young do you find such self-posses- 
sion and dignity ! You should be proud of your daughter, 
cousin.” 

Whereupon Mrs. Hilton blushed with pleasure, and re- 
plied that “ she believed she was a little proud of Cherry, 
she had always been unlike other children from her baby- 
hood, — always so womanly and self-sufficient.” 

And this girl, “ womanly and self-sufficient,” had 
dropped upon one of the trunks in her room with her 
chin in her hand and her eyes looking into vacancy, 
unable to think of any way by which she should be enabled 
to meet the exigencies of the occasion with sufficient com- 
posure. “If I could only pray,” she thought; but then 
if she had been a girl to pray and seek guidance from the 
right source, she would not be sitting in dumb despair to- 
night, and I would not be writing the sad record of her 
life for you to read. 

“ I cannot pray,” she thought. “ I cannot even think ; 
the only track my thoughts would pursue is one in which 
they would miserably confound themselves — a forbidden 
path — now and forever.” 


CERISE HALE. 


157 


While she sat there, her chin in. her hand and eyes 
staring out at vacancy, Fanfarronnade came in, — Fanfar- 
ronnade, in her stylish evening dress with her light fluff 
of hair in its most complicated arrangement. 

‘‘ Why did you leave ?’^ she asked, going over to where 
Cerise sat and looking searchingly into her face. 

There was some light answer on her lips, but the girl 
was, as I have told you, singularly honest, and she could 
not bring herself to act a lie. She was doing it all the 
same, you say ? But then she did not conceive that what 
she did for honor’s sake, though opposed to her feelings 
and inclinations, could possibly be regarded in that light. 
There was nothing in the marriage covenant that would 
call her truth into question, — she would promise to love, 
honor, and obey Philip, and she meant to do all three ; 
she did love him above any friend she ever had, Fanfar- 
ronnade not excepted. That other passion for a man 
whom she had only known a few short weeks, that insen- 
sate emotion that had proclaimed his power over her while 
she was ignorant of even his name, that could, must have 
no part in her life. It would burn out from its very in- 
tensity. She could honor Philip gladly, there was so much 
in his character to honor, and obey — oh, would she not 
obey him ! She would be his slave, — she would render him 
in cheerful obedience the more that she had defrauded 
him of what he valued above all earthly possessions. 

“ Why did you leave us all? We wanted you to sing. 
Mr. Dandridge was particularly anxious to hear you ; he 
has heard of ‘ We Two.’ ” 

could not sing to-night,” she said, simply; ‘‘be- 
sides, I am tired.” 

“ Oh, you’re always tired !” exclaimed Fan, petulantly. 
“Pray is that iron-ribbed trunk conducive to rest?” 

But she hushed her mocking tone at a look on Cherry’s 
14 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


158 

face, the same look that from the pillows in her own room 
at the St. Nicholas had filled her with an odd remorse. 
Fan was suffering to-night ; beneath all the gay badinage 
and persiflage the careless little bluster was wearing a heavy 
heart in her bosom. She dropped on the carpet by her 
friend’s side, with a piteous little wring of her hands, 
and only a very bouffant arrangement retained its dignity 
of position. 

‘‘ I am sorry I came. Cherry, to be your bride’s-maid. 
Jock is in agony to-night, and, somehow, I feel that I 
ought not to be here. Not that he has ever told me 
anything,” — after a pause, raising her face, indignant 
now, from its dive among the laces of Cerise’s draperies. 
‘‘No, he told me nothing; I am too frivolous for that. 
I would have been chaffing him, or couldn’t have under- 
stood it. Ah !” with a sarcastic sniff that no amount of 
grief could have extinguished, “isn’t it fortunate that 
some people who are not credited with much of a head- 
piece are gifted with the sense of prying and divining, 
and so finding out most things it is not intended that they 
should know?” 

A wave of color dashed the white face of her listener. 

“How was it my poor old Jock did not please you? 
He is handsomer than Philip Hale, — and — oh. Cherry !” 
with a great burst of emotion, “ any one can see you two 
were never made for each other. He is not the man for 
you; even papa, unobservant as he is in such matters, 
saw that, he said so !” 

“Don’t call me to account for my peculiar tastes. 
Fan,” she said, very coldly. “Your papa might have 
reserved his opinion with more credit to himself.” 

“There! I have made you angry on your last even- 
ing 1” sobbed volatile Fan. “ But, you know, poor 
Jock I” Then she threw her arms around her friend and 


CERISE HALE. 


159 

wept until the blue eyes were swollen and red, and she 
was not fit to be seen again down-stairs that night. 

“It is not all for Jock, Cherry,’^ she sobbed; “you 
will go away off in the country, and I — I did so hope to 
have you close. We had better never have loved each 
other than to endure all these horrid separations.” 

She had no words of comfort for Fan, her own heart 
stood in too sore need. 

“Well, Fan,” she said, disengaging herself from the 
girl’s clinging arms at last, “now that we have made 
ourselves hideous by our tears, let us go to bed. I shall 
never care to remember the last night of my maiden life. 
Kiss me ; forgive me, my dear little Fan, — forgive me all 
the pain I have unwittingly caused you and yours.” 

Then the sweet, sad voice faltered, and Fan, with a 
genuine groan, broke from the room and groped into her 
own, across the hall. 

Cerise went over to Lilias’s chamber ; her own was so 
filled with her trousseau and trunks in different stages of 
packing, that the idea of rest there was a mockery. Be- 
fore she knew exactly what she was about she found her- 
self kneeling by the little white bed in the unconscious 
attitude of prayer. Not to pray, — poor, mistaken Cherry ! 
— but to think ! To-morrow it would be a crime, — to- 
night she must listen perforce to the persistent voice of 
her heart, — the voice that called her back to the brief, 
bitter-sweet past, — the voice that clamored of him ! Ah, 
wonderful, rare voice, that had called across the distances 
while she had listened and trembled ! Ah, beautiful eyes, 
that had looked into her soul and made it his by the mes- 
meric power of that single glance ! 

“Memory! memory!” she cried, with tearless eyes, 
“close the portals to-night and throw the keys away, that 
I may never, never find my way hither again !” 


i6o 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


The gray morning dawned. Lilias had laid close to 
Cerise, sleepless the long night through, and now she 
leaned on her elbow and looked over to see if her sister 
slept. It was a little while before the mists cleared suf- 
ficiently to show her more than the glimmering profile 
with the dark hair weighting the pillow; and then she 
saw the eyes wide open, the mouth closed firmly, and an 
expression of indomitable calmness about the wide brow. 

Cherry looked up and saw the sweet little face so wist- 
fully gazing over her shoulder, and caught the child in a 
passionate embrace. 

Lilias sobbed on her bosom : Cherry, Cherry 1 what 
will we do when you have left ?** 

Cherry’s lips were locked ; she would not weep on her 
wedding morning, but there was dumb anguish in the dry 
eyes, and Lilias felt her heart beat with the violence of 
repressed emotion. 

“Is there nothing you want to tell me. Cherry?” the 
child asked, timidly, yet, oh, how earnestly ! 

Cherry’s eyes drooped at the sorrowful regard, and a 
faint color tinged her cheek. 

“ Nothing, Lilias, that you need hear me say. You 
will more than take my place ; you are better than I can 
ever be.” 

“ Oh, Cherry 1 do you think I have slept with you so 
long and not heard you cry and moan of nights ? Do 
you think so, dear?” 

“Hush, Lilias!” Cherry pushed her away almost 
roughly, and her eyes had a frightened gleam in them. 
“There is nothing to know; I have been sick and ner- 
vous.” 

Lilias arose and went quietly about dressing, though 
many tears retarded the process, and Cherry rattled on 
about the weather, her arrangements, the tour, and the 


CERISE HALE, 


i6i 


home-coming, and the little room Lilias was to find always 
ready for her, and the visit to be made so soon, in which 
they would play at keeping house. But she studiously 
avoided Lilias’s eye, for she knew the child was not de- 
ceived by the light semblance of carelessness on her part, 
and, moreover, she could not endure the heart-broken 
sympathy that eked out of every glance and tender, help- 
ful action. 

It was over at last and she was Cerise Hilton no longer, 
but Philip Hale’s wife. She was very quiet at the wed- 
ding breakfast, and it was characteristic of her that she 
accepted the position without embarrassment, answered 
gracefully to her new name, and bore herself with such 
serene self-possession that even her father was surprised. 

As for Philip Hale, he was too overflowingly joyous and 
glad to think that it might be detrimental to his dignity 
as a man and a newly-made Benedict to evince the state 
of his feelings so plainly. His face, glowing and laugh- 
ing, afforded a contrast to the grave, almost weary, visage 
of his young bride. There was a short time for leave- 
takings, but not too short. 

Cerise thought vaguely that she could conceive some- 
what of the heroism displayed by those boys of Spartan 
fame who smiled with the wolfs teeth at their vitals, as 
she stood on the portico of her beloved Thornmere and 
received the kisses of the little ones, her mother’s sobbing 
adieux, her father’s faltering blessings. Lilias came last to 
the carriage, and Philip held her light little figure on the 
step a moment. 

“Lil, my darling, don’t be too lonely without me !” 

The voice was even and quiet enough, but there was a 
strained and piteous agony in the great dark eyes that 
Lilias never forgot. 

14* 


CHAPTER XVL 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 

*' And when the step you wait for comes, 

And all your world is full of light, 

Oh, women safe in happy homes. 

Pray for all lonesome souls to-night 1” 

Phcebe Carey. 

It was a wild evening in October ; the frost had come 
early. October, that mellow season of the year before, 
had proven recreant this. There were no mild eventides 
dying down ruddy chasms of violet westward floating 
clouds ; no balmy stillnesses among the forest aisles, 
amid which you might hear the scarlet leaves floating 
dreamily earthward. The skies were chill, the winds 
were drear. 

At Thornmere, Lilias was helping James in with the 
small pots from the veranda, and mamma was vigorously 
punching at the south window-shutters, in her eager fear 
lest those darlings of her tender care, the winter cuttings, 
should come to harm before James could give them his 
attention. 

And over a hundred miles from Thornmere Cerise 
Hale stood alone, looking out from the deep embrasure 
of a window in an immense old-fashioned mansion at the 
storm that swayed the branches of the old oaks, and sent 
the dead leaves flying in miniature whirlwinds across 
the yard. The eyes were unfaltering as ever as she stood 
there, the brow as serene, and when the gate at the end 
162 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH, 163 

of the gravelled walk swung open and her husband's form 
appeared therein, the smile with which she greeted him 
was sunny and cordial. They had been married a year, 
and this was her first day alone. His first question as he 
sprang from his horse to her side in the portico, whither 
she had come to meet him, was, — 

‘‘ My darling, have you been lonely 

He waited almost eagerly for her answer. 

No, not lonely ; but I am glad you have come.** 

‘‘ Were you wishing for me ?’* 

She smiled indulgently. 

‘‘Foolish boy.** And she touched his hair with a 
gentle hand. 

He colored with a pleasure. 

“Yes, lam a foolish boy where you are concerned; 
but one little word of love from you is worth so much, so 
much to me ! Do you know I have almost imagined that 
you are careless of my caresses; you receive them so 
coldly.** 

Poor Philip was loth to remember that she had never 
voluntarily kissed him, or bestowed upon him a single 
loving caress ; but he was not prepared for the effect his 
words had upon her. 

“ Philip ! Philip ! don*t tell me that I do not satisfy 
you !** 

It was as though she had risked her life upon that one 
stake ; there were no tears in her eyes, but such a passion 
of despair that he was touched and flattered thereby. 
She cared that much to please him ! Ah ! Philip’s vanity 
played his wife a good turn then, and forever after. 
If she cared so much for him that the mere doubt of 
it on his part drove the blood from her face and filled 
her eyes with unmistakable anguish, then, indeed, was 
he satisfied. He could dispense with such common- 


164 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


place proofs as kisses and arm-claspings from a woman 
like that ! He was satisfied, she need have no further 
fears on that score. Philip kissed her and begged her to 
forgive him. 

‘‘ I forget that you are not like other people, that you 
choose to designate your emotions in your own peculiar 
way. You will not find me making the same mistake 
again. 1 am more than satisfied ; I am happy as it is 
possible for a mortal to be — in this sublunary sphere,” 
playfully. 

Cerise tried assiduously to banish all traces of her dis- 
comfiture, but she could not do it. If Philip should often 
question her thus; if he should ever detect the deception 
of her hardly-sustained character ! It was a dreary out- 
look. 

After tea, when the curtains were drawn and the centre- 
table in its usual position before the rug, Philip brought 
out his ledger for a little peep into my business mat- 
ters,” he said, with a pleasant excuse to his wife. She 
turned to the book-case ; too restless to read she skimmed 
over a line here and another there, until lying beneath a 
heavy folio she found a tiny copy of ‘‘ Rasselas,” dust- 
begrimed and yellow with age. She had never read it, 
it was ^‘too dishearteningly philosophic,” she had once 
told her papa, but, perhaps, it would suit her mood to- 
night ; she needed the coldest philosophy, the most dis- 
interested reasoning to restore her equilibrium. 

But she was not to find any allaying balm in Dr. John- 
son to-night, for as fate had it she opened at the debate 
of marriage between the prince and Nekayah : 

‘‘Such is the common process of marriage. A youth 
and maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by 
artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home 
and dream of one another. Having little to divert atten- 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 165 

tion or diversify thought, they find themselves uneasy when 
they are apart, and therefore conclude that they shall be 
happy together. They marry, and discover what nothing 
but voluntary blindness before had concealed. They wear 
out life with altercations and charge nature with cruelty.^’ 

Here was a revelation. But it had been no case of 
‘‘ voluntary blindness*’ with her. Her word had been 
pledged. That was the break-water ever for the floods 
that might have followed. At least they would never 
‘‘wear life out with altercations;” for she meant to be 
true to him in word and deed. So “ Rasselas” was laid 
on the shelf. She had gained a wise lesson from a single 
phrase, and she must set about refuting Nekayah’s conclu- 
sion in the daily walk she called her life. Then she went 
back to her low chair by the fireplace, and Philip cast his 
accounts blissfully unconscious that his wife was regarding 
him with eyes grown blind from hopeless misery and a 
despair like death in her heart. 

Bang! went the back of Philip’s ledger. “There, 
dearie, I am through; tired, eh?” 

“ No ; I was thinking.” 

“What, won’t you tell me? Had I a share in your 
thoughts?” 

“ Of you, Philip, always. I was thinking how good you 
are, and how I may best repay it.” 

“By asking me for all you want, and never clouding 
your bright eyes with imaginary grievances.” 

She shook her head. 

“Are you lonely here, dear?” after a pause. 

“ No ; why do you ask ?” 

“ I thought you might like to have Lilias or Fanfarron- 
nade.” 

“ Mamma could not spare Lilias now, and Fan would 
die away from New York in the season.” 


i66 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


By the way, Cherry, I have a letter from mother. I 
am glad you love those two dear old folks, darling. Would 
you like to go there soon again?” 

Her face brightened visibly. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, let us go there. I should enjoy it so much.” 

The weary evenings were tediously long, and Philip’s 
eyes were so loving and earnest that she always shrank 
within herself, dreading them more than she could tell. 

Father proposes parting with Hampden Hill, an old 
estate in the family. I think I may take it, if you should 
like it, — it is but a half-hour’s ride from New York, and 
a desirable residence in every way.” 

“Why do you care to change?” she asked. 

“Because you are buried here. Cherry;” then laugh- 
ingly, “ I might suggest that you tire of your husband if 
confined to a monopoly of his presence.” 

“You know I am not used to gayety ; Thornmere was 
quiet as a grave in winter ; and as for New York, — I know 
nothing of city dissipations.” 

“Except that bewildering taste at the St. Nicholas, 
since which I have always been a little jealous, for you 
have never been quite the same charming Cherry that you 
were before that visit.” 

“ In what does the change consist ? You indulge in 
mental vagaries, Philip.” 

There was a spice of intolerance in her voice, a tight- 
ening about the muscles of her face, — the price memory 
demanded for a backward glance at that dust-veiled pic- 
ture of her past. 

“ Don’t be vexed, pet, though I don’t know but I like 
you to look so occasionally, — it is like old times. Perhaps 
it is a mental vagary, but I have always imagined you were 
rather listless since, as though you had lost some physical 
action that had never been restored.” 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 167 

His analysis of the change hurt her, more, it fretted 
her strangely, as most unpalatable truths are wont to do. 

Go on,*^ she said, simply, when he stopped and di- 
rected that candid gaze of his full upon her face. 

Well, I should say it was because you lived too fast; 
you had so much to accomplish, and so little time for it 
all, that you have never fully rested since. Why, you 
won’t even argue now, darling! Don’t you remember 
how you -used to cut me up in the first days of our court- 
ship ?” 

‘‘ Don’t quarrel with my amiability, it is a new phase 
of my character ; perhaps it will not last when I am once 
rested.” 

She could not sleep that night, Philip’s words haunted 
her: “You lived too fast; you had so much to accom- 
plish, and so little time for it all, that you have never fully 
rested since.” Was it after all a terrible mistake she had 
made ? if she had given herself more time, could she have 
found a different conclusion possible ? 

Ah 1 let us draw the veil over that deluded, suffering 
soul. The night has fallen over the swaying outlines of 
the trees, the irregularities of the storm-tossed world, — 
there will come a morning for both, let us hope, in which 
shall shine bright and unmistakable, the “motives of the 
storm.” 

“The “old folks,” Philip’s father and mother, made 
much of Cerise, — “Philip’s wife,” as they loved to call 
her, — and Cerise was a different person to them than she 
had ever shown herself to any one else. Lilias would 
scarcely have recognized her brilliant, scoffing sister un- 
der the roof of Philip’s parents. Fan would have credited 
the metamorphosis to one of her “hundred phases;” 
Jock, perhaps, might have reconciled her attributes, for 


i68 


FOR BONOR^S SAKE, 


to him she had, singularly enough, shown this trustful, 
womanly, dependent side of her character. It was the 
Cherry that had charmed him, — tender, childlike, helpful, 
— only a little more thoughtful and subdued. 

How they loved her ! and how good, honest Philip, 
that proud young husband, glowed with their praises of 
his girl-wife ! 

They spent several quiet weeks here, while Philip nego- 
tiated for Hampden Hill, and Cherry loved ever after to 
look back upon that comparatively happy season of their 
wedded lives. Phil was too busy to alarm her with ques- 
tions, or weary her with protestations and caresses. She 
read her favorite books, practised difficult combinations 
on the old-fashioned Wennerstrom piano, to ‘^keep her 
hand in,*’ ate of Mamma Hale’s excellent dishes, and 
submitted with infinite relish to the petting process, until, 
as she said, she felt younger than she had ever done in 
her life. 

Philip, her husband, was more attractive in the shadow 
of the paternal roof-tree ; she did not wonder that those 
old folks — as she loved to call them, though Mr. Hale was 
not a half-score older than her own father — were proud 
of their son, and she felt no humility at the thought that 
she owed her hold upon their interest and affections to 
her place in their son’s life. 

In these weeks Cerise congratulated herself upon the 
success of her theory, and Dr. Johnson, as an observer 
of human life, fell far below the minimum in her regard. 

Her home-letters were bright and original. Mamma 
read them through fast- coming tears, and poor, old, fond 
papa, who missed his darling every hour of his daily life, 
— in the quiet evenings and long Sabbaths most of all, — 
thanked God with humble gratitude that his child was 
happy. Only Lilias, haunted by that last dumb appeal in 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH 169 

her sister’s eyes, was not entirely satisfied. On the day 
that Cherry left Thornmere a cloud fell upon the child’s 
gentle spirit that in all the after-time was never wholly 
lifted. 

‘‘ Phil,” said Cherry, one soft evening, when the 
Indian summer had wrapped the whole world in a dreamy 
quietude, ‘‘ I could almost imagine God loved me, I feel 
so content this evening.” 

They were rambling in the great wood behind his 
father’s house. 

‘‘ Of course God loves you ; why not, my girl ? You 
are good and noble.” 

There was suspicious moisture in his eyes. 

‘‘No, not good and noble, my poor boy; how little 
you know me !” 

He regarded her stealthily all the evening after that. 
She was gentle and gay by turns, her eyes shone un- 
wontedly, and the light hand she laid on his at intervals, 
by way of emphasis, was hot and dry. 

“Are you well, my darling?” he asked at last, anx- 
iously. 

And she laughed at his fears so mockingly, she looked 
so like her old self with that arch light in her eyes, that 
his anxiety was disarmed. 

Cerise awoke at midnight from a heavy, dreamless 
sleep, and the first object she made out in the unusual 
glare of light that flooded the room was Philip dressed 
and leaning over her with an expression in his eyes she 
could not fathom. She started up in vague terror. 

“ What is it, Phil?” 

“Be calm, my own one; nerve yourself to hear bad 
news.” 

The great velvety eyes dilated. 

“ Oh, is it mamma, — Lilias ! is any one ill, — dying?” 

H IS 


FOR HONORIS SARTE. 


170 

‘‘Your mamma, darling, has been very, very ill; we 
are to go to Thornmere immediately/^ 

Cerise pushed the heavy weight of hair from her 
temples and clasped them tightly with both hands, then 
got slowly out of bed and proceeded to dress for her 
journey, Philip helping her meanwhile, both too shocked 
to utter a word. 

“ My poor child cried Mrs. Hale, kissing both 
cheeks when they were leaving, “ your hands are hot. 
Philip, take care of her and bring her back to us/^ 

They reached Seaton in the night ; James was waiting 
with the carriage. 

“ James ! James ! is mamma living?’’ 

Cerise had not spoken so long a sentence during the 
day. She was totally unprepared for the revelation in 
the old servant’s face. She turned to Philip, — that 
expression of anguish and despair for her told her all ; 
she threw herself in his arms with a shriek, — 

“ And only last night I said God loved me !” 

He and James together bore her up the avenue and 
into the wide portico. Mr. Hilton himself opened the 
hall-door; he looked bent and thrice-aged from this 
heavy blow; he did not know who awaited him, supposing 
it too early for his daughter and her husband, until 
from out the shadows Cerise staggered toward him, hold- 
ing her arms out in a blind, uncertain way, that struck 
him dumb with anguish. 

“Oh, papa, shall I never see mamma again ! Why was 
it not I ?” 

It was too much for that poor stricken husband and 
father ; with a moan that contained nothing earthly in 
its sound except its agony, he would have fallen on the 
hall pavement had not the coachman caught him in his 
stalwart arms. 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 


171 

Then Lilias came hurrying down the wide staircase, a 
frightened look in her sweet eyes, her pale lips apart. 
Cerise forgot for a moment her own blind sorrow in 
looking upon that changed young face. A wild fear 
possessed her. What if Lilias too should die, — slip from 
her grasp to go after mamma ? there was nothing real ; it 
was a world of shadows. She strained the child to her 
bosom in a tumult of unreasoning terror, then fell back 
moaning into Philip’s arms. 

Mr. Hilton, restored to semi-consciousness, sat down 
in an uncertain way upon the hall sofa ; Lilias leaned 
against the door-frame, sobbing and weeping, not lifting 
a hand to wipe away the tears that flooded her poor, 
little, white face ; James stood behind his master, his 
weather-beaten face in hard lines of sympathy, and Cerise 
leaned on Philip’s bosom, her hands growing colder, her 
lips whiter with every moan that escaped them. 

My own darling, you will make yourself ill I” 

Amidst all the desolation around him Philip’s heart- 
gave a quick bound of intense joy. She turned to him 
in the moment of her deepest sorrow ; she was his own ; 
he alone had the power to comfort her in the hour of 
trial. 

He led her unresistingly up the stairs toward the room 
that had been her own, — the little white-furnished room 
that her mamma had garnished for her on that eventful 
home-coming after her graduation. She stopped as the 
memory smote her, and looked down toward the parlors. 

‘‘ May I — may I — see mamma to-night?” The request 
came brokenly, and a great, shivering sob nearly wrenched 
her from her husband’s arms. 

Not to-night ; Lilias, little sister, tell her, it is best.” 

But Lilias could not resist the dumb pleading of those 
great, wild eyes. 


172 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


Why not to- night, brother Philip?*’ 

She is not able, Lilias; nor you, either. Come, my 
own wife, I know what is best for you.” 

She turned mechanically ; she was accustomed to un- 
questioning obedience where his will was concerned, 
so she allowed herself to be put to bed, and lay there 
looking into Lilias’s face so silently that the child was 
terrified. 

“ Shall I tell you — of mamma. Cherry?” she whispered, 
in a low, frightened voice. 

‘‘ How did you come to let her die?” her sister asked, 
imperiously, a bright crimson burning in her cheeks. 

‘‘It was acute pneumonia; she got her feet wet, and 
took a cold. Oh, Cherry, we tried to keep her, but we 
could not ! How could we. Cherry, when God wanted 
her ?” The poor little mouth was working bravely to keep 
itself in order. There was something in her sister’s face 
that warned her against any outbreak in her presence. 

“Brother Philip,” she whispered, as she was leaving 
the room, “ Cherry is going to be ill. Don’t you see, 
she does not half know what she is saying, — I am afraid 
she does not understand — about mamma.” 

Philip refused to retire that night ; he pulled a chair to 
the bedside and sat there the long hours through, watch- 
ing the quiet, flushed face upon the pillows, with its 
wide-opened eyes and baffled expression. He spoke to 
her at last, but her reply was incoherent. When morning 
came, they thought it expedient to send for the family 
physician. He shook his head gravely over her. 

“She is very ill,” he said; “and that, I am sorry to 
say, is not the worst of it.” 

Philip touched his arm. 

“ Be careful, sir ; she is listening.” 

The doctor smiled sadly. 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 


173 

‘‘She cannot be disturbed by anything I may say. 
Has that lethargy deceived you?’’ 

“She has laid so since twelve o’clock,” said Philip, 
his voice husky and blank dismay in his tones. 

“Has she been imprudent, sir?” he asked, at length, 
of the haggard-eyed young husband. 

“We were walking late on Tuesday afternoon.” 

“ Humph ! clear case of pneumonia. And has she been 
troubled seriously, — I mean apart from this affliction ?” 

“ Not since she has been my wife,” proudly. 

“ Well, the brain is involved, and we have to look 
farther back than to-day for the causes of her illness.” 

Mr. Hilton, standing near, looked vaguely at the vacant, 
burning face on the pillow, and wondered if God ever 
faltered in the meting out of his chastisements. 

Towards evening a light snow began to fall, and a fun- 
eral cortege wound its way among the hills, — black and 
sombre in the pallid atmosphere, — at strange variance 
with the unflecked spotlessness of the earth. A long 
procession followed the remains of the gentle lady of 
Thornmere, — women and children with tattered clothes 
and bare, blue feet ; unkempt, ragged men and miser- 
able little urchins, — all of whom could remember a kind 
smile or a gentle word or a bountiful meal that had been 
doled out to them by the generous soul that had never 
known a want of its own unsupplied. It was a sad day 
for Thornmere. 

Aunt Hepsey, who had come to the funeral and con- 
sidered it her duty to stay afterward, made it doubly 
hard for Lilias. The stern old maiden swerved not a jot 
from her own iron rule of procedure ; and Alice and 
Waring, the two petted, spoiled children, rebelled so 
persistently, and begged Lilias so piteously not to leave 
them with Aunt Hepsey, who frightened and threatened 

15- 


174 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


them, until the white, shocked child-face began to look 
strangely old and faded. 

Mr. Hilton, wrapped in his grief, and filled with sus- 
pense and alarm on Cerise’s account, failed to notice 
Lilias, but Philip, who never forgot any one, and whose 
heart was filled with tender sympathy for the poor, lonely 
little thing, drew her into the library one day, while yet 
his wife’s life hung trembling on a thread. 

‘‘ Does anything trouble you, dear?” he asked, putting 
an arm caressingly around her and bringing her face on 
a level with his own. 

Nothing new, brother Philip ; but, oh, I miss mamma ! 
I can never be done missing her !” 

The child-woman bent her head and wept softly in her 
handkerchief. 

Philip sat down and took her in his arms, rocking 
softly to and fro, with his compassionate face against her 
own. Poor fellow, he felt need of comforting words him- 
self ; his bonny brow had grown lined and seamed, his 
eyes were dim with watching and weeping. He looked 
over to Cherry’s ‘‘cosy corner,” too blind to see how 
dust-begrimed and neglected was the once bright little 
niche. 

A martial step rang down the hall. Lilias started ; it 
was Aunt Hepsey, but Philip held her fast. 

Aunt Hepsey looked in ; she had just come off vic- 
torious from a contest with the children, and her cheek- 
bones were crimson, the folds of illusion stirring omi- 
nously above her angular bosom. 

“Is Cayriz better?” she asked, seeing Philip absent 
from his post. 

“No; I came down to comfort this poor child,” he 
said. 

“You are making her ///,” in stern disapproval. 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 


175 


Philip’s eyes lightened irritably. 

I shall do her no harm ; I wanted to tell her that I 
had written to my mother to come for a while and share 
your charge, Miss Shelton.” 

Aunt Hepsey said nothing, but she pierced the thin 
disguise of Philip’s remark. 

Philip put the child on a sofa and carefully covered her. 

‘‘Lie there, dear; when mother comes she will make 
things easier for you,” he whispered. And Lilias felt 
comforted already; his mother must be gentle and kind 
like him. 

Aunt Hepsey turned on the child when the door closed : 

Have you been complaining of me, miss?” 

Lilias’s eyes grew frightened, her lips quivered. “ No, 
ma’am, I said nothing, only that I was tired, and missed 
— my mamma. May I not go to the children, Aunt 
Hepsey ?” 

“ No ; you may not I I have locked Alice in the lum- 
ber-room and given Waring a spanking for his impudence. 
I have been threatening him long enough.” 

“You whipped Waring? Oh, Aunt Hepsey ! he never 
was whipped in his life.” 

“ Then it is high time he was. It grieves me to the 
soul to see the seed of sin so thick and rank in the soul 
of a child. You have all been allowed to gro7v up — as 
weeds grow. Your mamma was a very arpiable, kind 
woman, but she knew nothing of raising children.” 

“I don’t think we ever disobeyed dear mamma. Oh, 
Aunt Hepsey ! she knew how to make us love her, — for — 
now — because she is dead — we none of us care to live. 
It is dreadful ! dreadful ! It will never be the same with- 
out her.” 

The tears were running unrestrainedly down the white 
little face; the childish fingers were interlaced in a strained 


176 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


clasp. Aunt Hepsey took out her knitting sheath but 
forgot to pin it to her side. After a pause, in which the 
low sobbing of the motherless child was the only sound 
in the dark, disordered library, she said, with a curious 
little prefatory cough, ‘‘Go to Waring; he is in the 
school-room, and is almost sure to get into mischief 
alone. 

So Lilias went wearily in search of Waring, whom she 
found lustily crying for his playmate, and in agonized in- 
dignation over the first “ spanking*’ he had ever received. 
He pulled down his blouse to show Lilias the mark of 
Aunt Hepsey’s fingers on his shoulder, and true enough, 
on the soft, dimpled flesh were two or three slender red 
stripes. 

“Papa said you muthn’t alwayth tell the troof, but I 
mean to tell the troof, I will tell ole Aunt Hepthy she ith 
a nathty ole thing, an* I hate her I I will I'' he shouted. 
“And, Lil, 1*11 bite her mean ole ugly fingerth nexth 
time.** 

But Lil ^remonstrated, pressing her soft lips to the poor 
little shoulders. “ Papa meant you must not say things 
that were true if they were not nice, good things to say. 
You shouldn’t like me to tell the little boys in Seaton that 
Aunt Hepsey whipped you, and yet it would be true?” 

“Well, she muthn’t spank me any more!” sullenly 
kicking the, window-frame. “If mamma wath here she 
wouldn’t dare, ole thing P'* Then in a whisper, “Alith 
thayth if I pray to the devil to catch Aunt Hepthy, she 
won’t ask the Lord not to let him catch her 1” 

“ Oh, Waring, did Alice say that? Then Alice is very 
naughty. 1 will tell you what to do : pray to the good 
Lord to make Aunt Hepsey kind, and you try to be good 
and nice, and see if the Lord won’t do it ; there is nothing 
he can’t do, you know.” 


AZRAEL, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 


177 


And he could keep the devil from catching her. I 
gueth I won't pray then , — V d waffer hd d get her, 

Lit,'' in a low, delighted whisper. 

And yet Aunt Hepsey was not all stone, for when she 
went into the school-room an hour later and found Lilias 
and Waring asleep in each other^s arms with the traces of 
tears on their faces, her heart smote her for a single mo- 
ment, and she sought to justify her treatment of the 
motherless children: ‘‘They need wholesome punish- 
ments, — they have no mother now, it is fitting that she 
should look carefully to their moral training.” 

And Alice opened her blue eyes wide when Aunt Hep- 
sey took a bun from her capacious pocket instead of the 
inevitable knitting, and bade her eat it carefully so that 
the crumbs would not fall on the floor. 

Poor Aunt Hepsey ! she was one of those who remem- 
bered when she was young, caressed and looked after by 
loving eyes, but now that the barren evening of age was 
creeping on and the summer friends had fallen away, found 
constant source of rasping heart-ache in the well-being 
and happiness of others, — marking the contrast in her own 
life, — so tried to reduce them to her own level of peevish 
discontent, — wherein failing, rendered them miserable 
with her morals. There are plenty of Aunt Hepseys in 
the world, as you will all testify. 


H* 


CHAPTER XVI 1. 


RESURRECTED. 

“ Broken stairways where the feet 
Stumble, as they seem to climb.” 

Longfellow. 

The winter snows had melted from the flower-beds on 
the lawn at Thorn mere when Cerise awoke to take up the 
burden of life again. A tender turf of velvety green was 
mantling her mother’s grave, in sight from the library 
window. James had several pots in bloom at the head 
and foot, and the south window that the dear dead fingers 
had so loved to beautify was radiant with vernal color and 
fragrance. 

Let us stay with papa, Philip,” she entreated, on the 
first evening they brought her down into the library and 
settled her in her cosy corner,” ‘‘at least until lam 
stronger.” 

There was no resisting the pleading of those great sad 
eyes, grown more wistful and larger than ever since her 
illness. 

“Ah, how long ago it seems since you and I sat here 
together!” she said, wearily taking in the old familiar 
aspect of things, as though the eflbrt required more 
strength upon her part than she had to expend upon it. 

“ Do you remember how you quarrelled with me about 
Cromwell, and how angry you were at me for daring to 
contradict you?” he asked. 

She smiled wearily. 

“ Ah 1 I could not quarrel now over such trifles. You 
178 


RESURRECTED. 


179 

should wish me many chastenings, Philip, so that in time 
I might be tempered into something like meekness.’* 

‘‘I have no fault to find with you, my darling.” 

‘^But, honor bright, Philip, had you not an idea before 
you met me of some wonderful union in which you would 
gain from the gentleness and dignity of your wife; some 
complemental combination in which she would find the 
finishing of her character in the strength and firmness of 
your own ?” 

She paused, out of breath, but there was a slight, serious 
smile upon her lips. 

No, indeed, my dear; psychological combinations 
never bothered me for a moment.” 

‘‘But don’t you know learned writers on the subject 
agree, that those truly intended for each other are alone 
capable of blending into the perfect union that is required 
for happiness?” 

“ Nonsense ! Even learned writers have agreed upon 
merest supposition then, for matrimony is no sea to be 
sounded by plummet and line; there are no divers to 
find the wrecks, no log-books to tell of the ships that 
have sailed into safe harbors.” 

“Why, Phil! you are actually poetical. Settle my 
pillows and leave me to rest awhile. If you are satisfied 
with your share of the gains, I should be also.” 

But she could not rest, she was weak and nervous, and 
Philip’s sentence, odd enough for him, flitted through 
her brain untiringly. She looked haggard when Aunt 
Hepsey and Lilias came in to look after her. 

“ Have you been asleep ?” they asked. 

“No, not asleep,” she said; “ I am tired, disappointed; 
I thought I was stronger.” 

They read in the words but the plaint of physical de- 
bility, but there was ringing in her ears constantly that 


i8o 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


mocking declaration that her husband had made, unwit^ 
tingly enough, — There are no divers to find the wrecks, 
no log-books to tell of the ships that have sailed into 
safe harbors.” 

Do you know what it is to stand in all the nakedness 
of your soul face to face with death, — to see aright the 
miserable, dwarfed proportions of your cast-off physical 
vestures? When Cerise lay, drifting as it were, upon the 
vast sea of the Unknown, when the sounds of earth had 
lost all power to disturb her, it seemed, as though in a 
vision, she beheld her old sorrows, her old sins drop from 
her as a garment. How pitiably meagre looked that dis- 
torted bundle of suffering that had burdened her shoul- 
ders so heavily ! Would it ever be lifted again ? No, she 
had laid it down at the foot of the Cross : Christ, the 
Beneficent, had shown her his transfigured face, and she 
was no longer afraid. And when at last she came back 
from the Valley of the Shadow she brought the vision 
with her ; the old, feverish troubles of her unhappy past 
had vanished, never again to return ; there were to be no 
more vain repinings, — she was made anew. But with the 
renewal of bodily strength came also a renewal of that 
infirmity born of the flesh, and the vain repinings, the 
useless regrets, that she had come to look upon as 

Mountain ranges over-past 

In purple distance fair/’ 


sprung up in her path like giants refreshed from their 
slumber, and the poor, discouraged soul gave vent to its 
despair in that commonplace cry, — ‘‘I am tired, dis- 
appointed ; I thought I was stronger.” 

They stayed until fall ; Cerise growing in strength 
very slowly. You would never have known her for the 
same girl who had made music in the great wide halls, 


RESURRECTED. 


i8i 


and filled every nook and corner of the great old mansion 
with the indescribable light of gay-hearted youth. She 
was white as a statue in these days, and very quiet even 
with Aunt Hepsey, who still remained factojum at Thorn- 
mere. She had given up Rauch, D'Aubigne, and Ras- 
selas for the paramount literature of the world, — the Bible, 
and this she studied humbly, striving for another glimpse 
of the Beneficent Face that had shown itself to her in 
the days of her illness. 

Is it only in the time of physical prostration one can 
dare hope to know God, papa?’’ she asked one evening. 

‘‘Ah, you have given up the terms upon which you 
will meet your Father, my daughter? Be humble and 
patient. He will reveal Himself in His own good time.” 

That was all. There were no wordy arguments now ; 
that vacant little rocking-chair in the library-window was 
an effectual damper upon conversation there, and Cerise 
never found her father in the mood to argue ; the only 
thing in which he reminded her of his old self was his 
evening adjournments to the parlors, whither she always 
followed him to play, softly, the airs he loved, until the 
twilight was over. 

When the autumn came Lilias went to “Norbourne,” 
and Philip took Cerise to Hampden Hill, a score of miles 
from his father’s homestead and a half-hour’s ride from 
New York City. 

It was desolately lonely. Cerise seemed just beginning 
to realize her loss; the winter found her ill again, not 
dangerously so, but nervous and lethargic and over- 
whelmed by a lassitude that was alarming. Poor Phil ! 
those were bitter days for him, the more that Cherry, 
weak and with nerves impaired by suffering, was often 
intractable, peevish, and capricious by turns, until his 
patience was sorely tried. 

i6 


i 82 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


wonder/’ she said one day, in genuine shame at a 
sudden ebullition of temper, and essaying to drive away 
the gloomy lines about Philip’s eyes, — ‘‘I wonder if in 
men only, the arterial and cerebral system prevails, which 
alone produces irritability ; or is that the completeness I 
gain from you, my poor, patient Phil?” 

Phil looked a little mystified, as well he might, but he 
kissed her tenderly. 

“Poor child,” he said, soothingly. “I would be a 
brute indeed if I could not allow for the difference your 
health makes in your temper.” 

In the spring the doctors advised travelling by easy 
stages ; so Hampden Hill was closed, and they started on 
their health-seeking tour, laying over a few days at Thorn- 
mere for a look at mamma’s grave and a paternal bene- 
diction. 

No need to follow them to “Norbourne,” where gentle- 
eyed Lilias is living her sister’s old school-life over, with 
a difference, since no two lives can resemble each other 
in many points, and where the little German master, the 
very same to the homely, hairless wart on his chin, looks 
through blinding tears at the wan, wasted face of his 
idolized pupil. 

We will only tell you that they spend many months 
travelling and resting, by turns, until the color comes grad- 
ually back into Cherry’s white face, — not with the vivid 
roses of her girlhood, but fitfully, like sunset flushes, and 
sometimes Philip is reminded deliciously of the bright, 
quaint girl he met and loved at Willie Craighton’s bed- 
side. And then, when October comes around again, we 
find them back at Thornmere, en route for Hampden Hill, 
where Mr. Hilton clasps his darling, his pride, with fer- 
vent thanksgiving. She is so like her old self, still frail 
and delicate, but not wan, colorless, spiritless. 


RESURRECTED. 


183 

Lilias, who has postponed her return to ^‘Norbourne” 
at Cherry’s request, is the same spirituelle-faced child, a 
little more womanly from her year at school, and Aunt 
Hepsey warms into something like sympathy as she be- 
stows a very precise but sincere salute upon Cherry’s 
cheek. 

The babies. Waring and Alice, growing into round- 
eyed, tall children, — less shy of Aunt Hepsey than two 
years ago, — cling to Philip’s knees with the tumultuous, 
noisy glee of children delighted at the return of a favorite 
playmate, and poor, venerable Prince, who, to my shame 
be it said, I had forgotten to mention in the adversity of 
the household, gives quick, expressive wags with his great 
bolster of a tail, and shows all his long white teeth in a 
growl of canine sympathy. 

Mrs. Hale, more motherly and crooning than ever, was 
ready to receive them at Hampden Hill ; sO, after a short 
sojourn at Thornmere, they went thither, Lilias and Mr. 
Hilton accompanying them. 

Mr. Hilton was charmed with the home of his daughter. 

‘‘You never wrote me it was so beautiful,” he said, as 
he stood with Cherry on the western veranda, about sun- 
set of the evening they had arrived. 

“ I never quite liked it here,” musingly; “ it has been 
a veritable ‘Slough of Despond’ to me.” Then, has- 
tily, as she saw the unequivocal surprise upon her father’s 
face, “I have been so ill here most of the time, papa.” 

“ But you are well now.” 

“Yes,” doubtfully. 

“You will go out into society, — you will make it pleas- 
ant for Philip?” 

She shivered a little. 

“ I don’t know ; Rasselas never found in the world the 
happiness that he longed for in the valley, you know. I 


i84 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


have no taste for society ; but of course it is just as Phil 
wishes; if he would like it — why — then ’’ 

‘‘ No taste for society ! Why, my dear, you are too 
young for that ! You are only just nineteen/* 

How the old repinings smote her then! ‘^Only just 
nineteen !** and there were so many years of life to come ! 
What should she do with them ? But she thrust back the 
coward-thought with the power of a mighty will, and 
lifted a brave, sad face in the sunlight. 

‘‘Society is not good for me, papa; I am too suscep- 
tible. It liked to have ruined me once ; I am dubious of 
trusting it again.*’ 

He smiled vacantly; it was evident he had not heard 
her. His mind was off on its own track; he was think- 
ing of eyes, blind to earth, that would have taken in with 
unselfish delight every aspect of this beautiful home with 
which fortune had favored her darling. And then he 
wondered if she did not know, if she could not see. And 
he walked slowly up and down the broad veranda, mus- 
ing tenderly upon the spirit-form of her who had been his 
wife, — the light of his home. 

While Cerise, leaning on the railing and looking up 
into the glowing sunset skies, wondered if behind those 
brazen clouds the angels in heaven could look down 
upon th^ir loved ones and know what was passing in 
their hearts. 

“ Oh, mamma ! I pray not P' and she covered her face 
in affright at the mere thought. 

Mr. Hilton’s visit was soon over, and when he and 
Lilias were fairly gone, Philip broached the subject that 
her father had touched upon on the evening of their arri- 
val at Hampden Hill. 

“ Cherry, don’t you intend returning some of the calls 
that have poured in upon you since our return?” 


RESURRECTED. 185 

Cherry^s face was tinged with a quick stain of color. 

Why, Philip? I had rather not.’* 

‘‘ But, my dear, has society no claims upon you?” 

‘‘ No,” she answered, almost angrily ; ‘‘lam contented, 
just with you, Phil.” 

He colored with pleasure. 

“ My darling, you do not dream how proud it makes me 
feel to hear you say that ; but there are reasons why I am 
anxious that you should go out a little. I don't want my 
friends to think I have married a recluse.” 

So Cerise had the carriage ordered and went to dress 
listlessly enough. They went together : Philip, debonair 
and handsome. Cherry indifferent, haughty, and elegant. 
Phil came home elated, even Cherry admitted it was 
pleasant. New York looked different from what it had 
in that dream-state of her existence ; the sights were there 
and the sounds and the hurrying multitudes, but there was 
reality about it all, the mystic glamour had faded. 

One evening she started out at Philip’s instigation, alone, 
for a round of calls ; she did not do more than leave her 
card at several places, but at Mr. Farronnade’s — no longer 
a suite at the St. Nicholas, but a palatial mansion on Mur- 
ray Hill — she stopped, anxious to hear from her beloved 
little “ bluster,” dear now as in the old school-days that 
seemed to lie so far behind them. She stayed chatting 
nearly an hour with the courtly old gentleman, of Fan, 
gone off on a Southern tour with Leila Ranch’s bridal 
party, and of Jock, a rover after happiness in the utter- 
most parts of the morning. 

“ The changes in life are saddening to an old man who 
has only his past to live upon,” said the white-haired 
cavalier, as he held her hand at parting; “but to you 
for whom the future holds so much, ah ! my dear young 
lady, changes are but the inevitable stepping-stones 
16* 


i86 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


from one scene of enchantment to another. Is it not 
so?’* 

Cherry clasped his hand with unconscious strength ; 
for one moment the forbidden sweetness of her magical 
past floated up and about her. But only for a moment, 
the next she smiled sadly in reply. 

‘‘I have lost a tender mother since we met, and there 
is a void in all the future when I look forward to it.” 

She had promised Philip to call on Aurelia Doyle, who 
had lately returned to her winter nest on the Fifth Avenue, 
but she was not equal to it, she was tired, out of sorts, — 
just as she knew she would be, when Philip insisted upon 
pushing her out from the quiet of home. Her old idea 
of being foremost had vanished with many of the Uto- 
pian projects of her early youth ; if she could make Philip 
happy it would be as much as she would dare hope to do. 
If only she might do it in her own way. Just as she 
reasoned herself into quiet that was almost content, here 
came the jarring contact with old associations, and so were 
her firm resolutions swept aside before the mighty tide of 
memory. 

Philip riding in from a hunt was just in time to help 
her from the carriage as it stopped at the broad porch 
steps. He was shocked at his wife’s tired, white face. 

‘‘I am not able, Philip,” Cherry half sobbed, as he 
lifted her out ; ‘‘if you insist upon this it will kill me.” 
So that was the end of it. 

He had brought her to Hampden Hill to restore her, 
and if the demands of society and the gay world were too 
much for her strength, why, she must let them pass by. 

Don’t you see that Philip was a man among ten thous- 
and ! It was well for his peace that he was so patient 
and non-investigating. 

After that they drifted into quiet again. While Philip 


RESURRECTED, 


187 


hunted the foxes in the grand old forests of Hampden 
Hill, Cerise, with her favorite books, read in the low 
hammock on the south veranda, or spent long evenings 
roaming through the leafy rustling pathways of the wood 
behind the house. She was swinging lazily in her ham- 
mock one evening, when carriage-wheels bowling up the 
avenue made her start ; and leaping hastily from her perch, 
she beat a hasty retreat into the hall. But she stopped, 
with her hand on the stair-railing, feminine curiosity im- 
pelling her to look back. It was Aurelia Doyle in faultless 
carriage-costume, and Philip was bending from his horse 
to close the avenue gate behind her. 

Aurelia looked very beautiful and brilliant as she lay 
back among the cushions of her dress-coupe, with that 
glittering smile on her face ; but Cerise thought that no 
profusion of mellow sunlight could impart warmth to those 
cold blue eyes. She stole a little depreciatory glance at 
herself in the hall-glass ; but she was too indifferent to 
care for the contrast she was likely to present to her ex- 
quisitely-arrayed and radiant-faced visitor, so she turned 
into the drawing-room. She heard them as they came up 
the portico-steps, chatting gayly ; her recluse habits were 
being discussed. 

‘‘And you, Phil, — how do you endure it? I remem- 
ber you as a thorough will-o^-the-wisp in your school- 
days, and a lover of society always.’’ 

There was an insinuation of sympathy in the chill, 
musical tones. 

Cerise did not wait for Philip’s answer, but threw 
open the door and presented herself within it. 

“Whisper of angels,” smiled Aurelia, extending a 
primrose-gloved hand, and bestowing upon Cherry’s un- 
willing cheek the semblance of a hearty caress. 

Aurelia had a great deal to tell her of the world from 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


1 88 

which she chose to absent herself : of Leila’s marriage, 
her handsome Russian husband, her trousseau and bijou- 
terie ; of Lady Celeste, gone back to her own country 
to marry the lover of her childhood, a Roman count, 
with whom she had played in infancy in her father’s 
palace gardens; of Jock, and the exquisite little ivory 
table he had sent Leila for a bridal present, carved out 
of the tusks of an elephant that he had caught himself 
in Scinde ; of that one and the other, until, at last, came 
up the name that Cherry’s coward heart had been dreading 
to hear. 

Have you met Colonel Courtlandt since the winter 
you spent with Fan ? No ? Then you will not be pre- 
pared for the change in him ; he actually has a faint 
color. Apropos of your winter with Fan, Cherry, I wit- 
nessed the least ‘taste in life’ of a picture in the Farron- 
nade library one morning upon which, to say the least of 
it, I might have put a strong construction had I chosen, 
— and one that would have made you slightly jealous, Mr. 
Phil.” Aurelia nestled back in her chair, looking very 
arch and innocent and gleeful. 

“Ah, I fancy not,” said Phil, nonchalantly, walking 
over to the other side of the room and critically inspect- 
ing the light on some new paintings. 

Cerise’s features, obedient to her will, remained quiet 
as ever under the disclosure Aurelia had made ; but the 
young lady’s undaunted fire of polite nothings grew 
gradually weaker under the cold-water influence of her 
hostess’s monosyllabic replies. 

Philip in his distant corner, ostensibly examining the 
good points of his pictures, felt half inclined to be vexed 
with Cherry or her ungracious mood. 

“ Aurelia, come tell me if this ‘ Coming to the Par- 
son’ is a good copy?” 


RESURRECTED. 189 

Aurelia trailed her silken skirts gracefully over the 
carpet to his side. 

‘‘ Charming ! That is a queer companion- piece you 
have in the opposite corner.’’ 

Mr. Farronnade gave it to Cherry for a Christmas 
gift, — did he not, my dear?” 

She bent her head over the Laocoon, and smiled at 
last rather oddly into Philip’s face when he asked her of 
what she was thinking. 

‘‘ I was thinking you should have a portrayal of mental 
agony to match this superb interpretation of physical tor- 
ture ; but I don’t know where you would go to find it.” 

“There is ‘Mary at the Cross,’ ‘Judas Iscariot,’ 
‘Lear?’ ” suggested Philip. 

“ I mean the agony arising from regret ; the vain, im- 
potent torture produced by irretrievable missteps. Ah, 
you understand me. Cherry, though, as you remember, I 
was never good at word-painting.” 

Cerise had risen from her chair; there was something 
in the steely, pitiless eyes that goaded her to desperation. 

“I don’t think you understand yourself,” she said, 
quietly, but with one slight hand clinched tightly in a 
fold of her white wrapper. “ If Mary’s was not the 
agony of regret ; if Judas Iscariot’s was not the torture 
of irretrievable missteps, then I fail utterly to conceive 
the true meaning of either.” 

Aurelia smiled sunnilyj albeit, her lower lip took an 
unpleasant curve that was not lost upon her hostess. 

“Ah! I stand corrected,” she said, in her blandest 
voice; “ for who should conceive the meaning of either 
of my misapplied terms more wisely than you. Cherry ? I 
yield that much to your old school-superiority.” 

“Thank you; but I don’t care to accept any fancied 
superiority you may yield me.” 


190 


FOR HONOR'S SANE, 


She dared not in common politeness or decency put 
the emphasis where she meant it, but Aurelia read her 
meaning plainly enough. They fenced a few moments 
dexterously with facial expressions, — an accomplishment 
women possess, — and then Aurelia suddenly remembered 
a thousand engagements, and so she bowed her grace- 
ful figure out into the sunlight, and the light coupe bore 
that masterpiece of beauty and innocent-faced treachery 
down the avenue and out of sight of Cherry, waiting on 
the portico for Philip’s approach, in blissful ignorance of 
the gloomy frown upon his brow. 

Yes, Philip was annoyed, and more than that, he was 
half angry that Cherry should so far forget herself as to 
treat a relative of his inhospitably at their own home. 
He scolded her unsparingly, and as Philip was not given 
to finding fault with her, she bore it with exemplary pa- 
tience until he said, in the end, — 

‘‘Your dislike of Aurelia is unreasonable; you must 
overcome it for my sake. She has always been a favorite 
cousin of mine, and I had hoped you two would assimilate 
so that we might have her here sometimes ; you know she 
is entirely dependent upon her relatives.” 

Then her eyes smouldered and blazed, and two spots 
of crimson color leapt into either cheek. 

“I am not unreasonable, as you well know; I wish I 
were more impulsive. Aurelia hates me; she always has 
since we were school-mates ; my dislike of her is thor- 
oughly well based, but, as she is a favorite of yours, I had 
rather not weaken her hold upon your esteem. I cannot 
change my deepest convictions even to please you, Philip, 
paramount as you know that inducement to be, always.” 

Then the flame died out of the proud eyes quenched in 
regretful tears, and Philip, smitten with shame, went to her 
side and kissed them away, with many bitter upbraidings 


RESURRECTED, 


191 

of himself at having brought them there. So that cloud 
blew over, and Cherry breathed freely again. 

Only one thing weighed upon her heart. If they two 
should meet ! Did the catalogue of time hold a trial like 
that in store for her ? Well, let it come, she would weather 
it, and no one would be the wiser, least of all the man 
whose name had been so long silent upon her lips that she 
had come to believe it silent among the names and homes 
of the living. Not dead ! come back to new life, — new 
love ! And if he came with the old measured sweetness 
of voice, the old buoyant grace of movement, the old 
dreamy languor in his mesmeric dark eyes, what would it 
matter to her, who had a home of her own to keep bright 
and beautiful, a life beside her own to guard and cher- 
ish ? She would see to it, — God helping her, that far-off 
shadowy Divinity who only showed his face in the bleak, 
bitter moments of suffering, — she would see to it that 
Philip missed nothing. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A NEW LEAF. 


“ ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.” 

Tennyson. 

My heroine is faulty, I will admit, and wonT bear com- 
parison with the Amabels and Lucilles of our present-day 
novels. But the Amabel of the beautiful home-story is 
subjected in early youth to the judicious training and 
protective care that makes the English mother a worthy 
example for all the world of mothers; and in those glow- 
ing, passionate pages, where Lucille lives her idyllic life, 
we find woman to be either Anonyma or angel, bred in 
the salon or the sanctuary. My heroine is an American ; 
so, if you find fault with her character, attribute it to her 

raising, as we Yankees say. 

There is something painfully lacking in the home-train- 
ing of American girls, as is elicited by their after-lives. 

For model homes and model stories, look to the pages 
of Miss Yonge and Dinah Craik. We have nothing in 
American light literature like them ; and why? Because, 
to be true to nature we must also be true to character. 
When the critics complain of the want of stamina in our 
heroines, the lack of endurance and heroic qualities gen- 
erally, they should bear in mind that we can only make 
the best of our materials. The pen should be allowed no 
wider license than the tongue, and both should be guided 
by veracity. The youth of an American girl is not often 
conducive to heroic qualities : mothers leave them too 
192 


A NEW LEAF. 


193 


much alone. They are nursed into precocity, just as a 
gardener forces his hot-house plants to bloom out of 
season. And then when the unnatural bloom drops off, 
— early too, — and the strength of the plant seems to have 
been expended upon that first supreme effort, we find our- 
selves wondering, wuth the gardener, if it had not been 
wiser to have let the bloom come in its own good time 
without all this premature care and trouble. American 
fiction-writers, failing to find the ideal character at home, 
go abroad to gather plot and place for their imaginings, 
and for this reason is our portrayal of American home-life 
so unsatisfactory to readers. We Judiciously mix with our 
own the cant customs of foreign localities, and though the 
counterfeit be liable to detection, we run the risk of that 
for the sake of the renewed interest the proceeding may 
give to our pages. 

I might, Zeuxis-like, model my heroine after the best 
to be found in all human nature ; but you don’t want a 
figment, you want a reality, and the training to which 
my American Cerise has been subjected has resulted in 
making her faulty. 

Who will set me adrift on this Nile?” At the North 
Pole to-day, at the Terra del Fuego to-morrow, enjoying 

WALK FROM THE HIMALAYA TO THE GANGES BY MOON- 
LIGHT,” with the Moslem at prayer when the sun tinges 
the orient. With these gigantic leaps as precedents, you 
will not be shocked when I tell you that we have crossed 
a beck dividing us by six years from our acquaintances 
of Thornmere and Hampden Hill. Six years, in which 
the snow has had time to congeal among the locks of 
our dear old Mr. Hilton’s head ; in which death has 
reached out welcoming hands to Philip’s father ; in which 
Lilias has come home from Norbourne, not much more 
I 17 


194 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


than a tender, lovely child ; in which Cerise has gained 
the maturity of years into which she was forced so long 
ago, so that at its accession she is not aware of anything 
new in her condition. She is very much the same to her 
husband, who has watched the well-beloved face through 
all the years he has called her his own, until none of its 
expressions are unfamiliar to him; but Papa Hilton misses 
the old, proud curve of the scarlet mouth, the quick, sar- 
castic repartee ; and Lilias thinks sadly how unusual it 
used to be for Cherry to sit idle day after day, not even 
the piano touched for weeks at a time. In mamma’s time, 
that one short, beautiful summer, the child remembered 
how she had filled the house with company, and the music 
of her own glad voice was foremost among them all; 
now nothing seemed to interest her, even books she rarely 
opened. 

Old Mrs. Hale had come to live with them after her 
husband’s demise, so that Cherry had no household cares 
whatever ; the dear old soul would have pined to death 
bereft of her beloved husband and household gods at 
once. 

They were out on the wide western veranda, their 
favorite gathering-place after tea. It was nearly twilight, 
in the evening of a day late in June. Cerise sat in a 
great cushioned chair, her pale face with its restless dark 
eyes looking almost unearthly in the weird light that 
filtered in between the vines. Mr. Hilton was leaning 
back in his old fashion, meditating deeply, if we may 
judge by the puckered brows and the speculative eyes 
resting on Cherry’s face, yet looking far beyond it. 
Philip, handsome and stalwart, was lounging on the lower 
steps tickling a hound’s nose with a cherry bough, and 
enticing him to more daring leaps after the cruel little 
instrument so dextrously held beyond reach in his mas- 


A NEW LEAF, 


195 


ter’s hand. Lilias was away on a visit to ^^Fanfarron- 
nade;’* and Mrs. Hale was superintending the putting 
away of the tea-china in the dining-room. Behind them 
swayed the grand old forest, the pride and boast of Hamp- 
den Hill, and the musical murmur of its thousand insects 
was filling the summer evening. 

Philip, looking up at his wife and recognizing one of 
her quiet moods, got up, with a careless sigh, — not of dis 
appointment, he had grown too used to Cherry and her 
moods, — and walked down the avenue pavement, leaning 
over the gates, and, with a series of mellow whoops, 
bringing the whole kennel to his feet. Philip was a Dandie 
Dinmont in his love for dogs. Cherry smiled, looking out 
from the shadow of her hand curved above her eyes, — he 
would have made a subject for Landseer. Then Philip 
opened the gates and went out, the dogs leaping up about 
him, and Mr. Hilton lost the speculative gleam from his 
eyes. 

Cherry, do you spend all your days so?’* 

Cerise looked up wonderingly. 

‘‘Not all, papa; I sew a little sometimes, and read 
and walk ” 

“And eat and sleep — my dear child, I have only been 
here two weeks, but I am not satisfied with you. What 
is it ? You have some good reason for acting so. Are 
you not well ?” 

“Oh, papa!” Cherry’s voice quivered; “I have no 
reasons — only — that I like it best. It is the old story, 
papa, I can never please you.” 

“My child! my child! have you forgotten the work 
to do?” 

There was real pain in the old man’s voice ; he looked 
more disappointed than she ever remembered to have 
seen him ; an answering pang shot numbly through her. 


FOR HONOR'' S SAKE, 


196 

My ^ work’ was taken from me, papa, when my baby 
died.” The agonized white face she turned upon her 
father shocked him. ‘‘ I tried to do my work. I did 
not omit a single instance where I could be of use to 
mamma — to you, and Philip. You do not know how well 
I did it!” her voice rang angrily. ‘‘Then mamma 
died; was that because I dared think I had won a small 
measure of God’s approbation ? Then came that dread- 
ful, weary illness. Afterward I took up my work again ; 
there was no need to go from home to find it, — you said 
that once to me, papa, and I have learned its truth. I 
once had Utopian ideas of doing good at the front, and 
I commenced it bravely, I thought, with those silly little 
experiments at Seaton. I know now my great mission is 
to live out patiently a quiet life ; if I can do that, you 
must not ask me, what of my work?” 

“My child 1” 

“AVait, papa! You know when baby came? Oh, I 
loved God then, I am sure ! I know I was humble then. 
I said to myself: I will rear my child so faithfully; I 
will not ask for her genius, I will ask God to let me keep 
her heart at ho7ne ; she shall never hear that great things 
are expected of her ; she shall never know that life has 
crosses and trials in store for her. She shall dress her 
dolls, and believe in her fairy-tales as long as she choose, 
and I will teach her love and duty by my own daily 
walk. I did not make her an idol ! No, papa, you 
must not tell me that ; I did feel, with her little head 
against my bosom, that life was no longer weary and 
slow, that the future held something more for me than 
it did before she came. But God saw I was growing 
happy and contented ; it would not do for me to be 
happy. I might be strong, brilliant, self-sufficient, — but 
not happy ! So she died, — and I — I have no heart for 


A NEW LEAF, 


197 

any work, except, as I told you, to live out patiently a 
quiet life/^ 

The impetuous voice ceased suddenly, and in the semi- 
light the tear-dimmed eyes of the gentle old man gazed 
with infinite pity upon the bent form and covered face of 
the woman, — his best-loved child. He walked uneasily 
over to where she sat, sobbing violently, — tearless sobs 
that shook her very soul. 

“Forgive me, my poor child, I never do much more 
than distress you by my ill-timed interrogations ; but I 
felt that I must run the risk of hurting you, even should 
you think me heartless. There is something more than I 
know of that troubles you I fear. You must not think 
that in all these years I have failed to notice the under- 
tone of weariness and unrest that has pervaded your 
every word and action. No, do not start, my darling, — 
papa has Argus eyes where you are concerned, — but I do 
not mean to ask for your confidence. Keep your sad 
secret, but let me comfort you if I can.” 

His arms were around her, his gentle old face against 
her own. 

“ Papa, papa 1” she sobbed, holding him fast, and trem- 
bling as though a cold wind were blowing upon her. 

“ Philip, your husband, needs you. He misses the babe 
that was as much his as yours. My child, you have no 
right to exercise your grief to the exclusion of all duty, — 
all claims from the outside world. Lilias is young and 
alone, — you might make life a glad and gracious season 
to her if you would. You have facilities to do so that I 
have never had. Philip is fond of society and pleasure, 
and yet for all of either he has tasted in the last five years 
he might as well have lived an anchorite. SuppK)se your 
mother had been deaf as you to the claimants outside her 
gates, would there have been as many mourners the day 

17* 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


198 

she died, — or as many stars in her crown to-night?*’ The 
slow, sad tones quavered tremulously. ^‘Ah, my dear, 
that sainted little woman lived on in her practical way 
quietly, uncomplainingly, making us all happy by the un- 
obtrusive light of her never-flagging cheerfulness. It is the 
truest and best life, — the life that is lived for others.” 

I know it so well, papa; and I had fancied until to- 
night that all along I have been living for others.” 

‘‘It is not too late to commence now, my daughter; 
the reward will come in an added blessing upon your life. 
Well-doing makes happiness. You will be happy, my 
child.” 

Cerise put both arms around her father’s neck. 

“ I will try, I will try,” she sobbed ; “ not that I expect 
happiness, but because I would like to do right.” And 
now a fast-coming gush of tears rained down her cheek, 
and with them came a sense of relief to her overburdened 
heart. It was like the old time to rest within the circle 
of her father’s loving arms. If his counsel hurt her be- 
cause it had probed the wound very deeply, it had also 
helped her, as all wise counsel given in a tender spirit does. 

An hour later, Philip coming up the avenue from a 
talk with one of his men was surprised to find Cerise 
sitting on the door-step evidently awaiting him. He saw 
the shadow of tears on her face, for the rays of the hall- 
lamp shone full upon her, but he made no comment ; it 
was nothing new to see those mournful traces of sorrow 
on Cherry’s cheeks since the death of her babe two years 
ago ; and Philip, whose own great tender heart bore a 
wound as deep, never felt that he could chide her for her 
unrestrained grief. He sat down beside her with an arm 
about her waist. 

“ Don’t be so kind, Philip,” she said ; “I have some- 
thing to tell you.” 


A NEW LEAF, 


199 


^^Why should I not be kind, my dearest?** 

^*1 do not deserve it, Philip. I have been blind and 
selfish. Poor fellow,*’ with a light hand stealing up to his 
cheek, ‘‘ how lonely you have been !** 

‘‘ With you, indeed ; no, my darling !** 

But I have been nothing to you, Philip, since our baby 
died.** The voice growing husky again, great agonized 
tears gathering afresh in her eyes. I have been like a 
stone, — Worse, a cruel thoughtless wife,^ — a woman without 
a heart!** 

He stopped her gently, wondering at the fierce self- 
accusation of her mood. 

‘‘ I want to tell you this, Philip : that I mean to try, 
late as it is, to put some warmth and color into your life. 
I will throw Hampden open to your friends if you will ; 
I will chaperone Lilias into society, break the silence of 
this enchanted palace ; in short, do as other people do in 
our world.** She was speaking rapidly, as one afraid to 
stop for fear of the sound of her own voice. “ What do 
you say to that ?** 

Her husband’s face was bright with the pleasure of the 
surprise. 

I say it is a very charming caprice !** 

He did not see that she turned away with blank disap- 
pointment on her face. She was selfish enough to hope 
that he would object ; he had seemed so carelessly con- 
tent, perhaps, after all, this quiet life was more to his taste 
than any other. 

‘‘It will be just the thing for Lilias — and for me, it 
is all I could have asked of you, my darling. I have 
longed to see Hampden Hill dispensing the hospitality 

that it was wont to do in my uncle’s time ; and then 

I am anxious to show off my wife !** 

This last with closer arm-clasp and a kiss of boyish fervor. 


200 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


I will do as you please, if you will but command me ; 
it is late,*^ with a tremulous smile, ‘^but, oh, Philip! I 
have not had the heart/’ 

I know, I know, my poor little girl 1 You have had 
such sorrow and sickness ; but you will be better now. 
Can you sing your old song ? — 

* All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins t’ 

Lilias comes to-morrow, and she can help you perfect 
your plans. Here comes mother with a rigoletto. She is 
over-careful of you, my dearest.” 

“ She spoils me, Phil, as you all do. You praise me for 
a duty so tardily performed. If you hadn’t another lov- 
able quality, Phil, I should love you for your generosity ; 
dear old boy P” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


JUSTIFIED. 

“ The world, which you figure to yourself smooth and quiet as the lake 
in the valley, you will find a sea foaming with tempests and boiling with 
whirlpools.’^ — R asselas. 

Next day Cerise was driven down to the station in time 
for the noon train, but she looked vainly down the row of 
windows, when it came thundering up, for a glimpse of 
Lilias. 

I shall wait for the next train, and meet my sister,’* 
she said to the coachman; ‘‘be back in time for us.” 

Then she walked up and down the platform in the 
warm June sunlight, thinking uneasily over the change she 
proposed making in the course of her life. 

The warning note of the coming train echoed among 
the hills, and in a moment she was lifted in by the atten- 
tive conductor and carefully escorted to a seat, for they 
knew her well on this road ; her baby’s death, her beauty, 
and eccentric habits were well-ventilated themes in the 
neighborhood. 

Almost every one in the car turned for more than a 
passing glance at her face as she passed. It was a rarely- 
winning face, despite the weariness of the eyes, the pallor 
of the calm, noble features, — more attractive than ever it 
had been in her careless youth, with those patient lines 
about the lips that were alien to them then. One passenger 
persistently turned again and again, until his companion, 
a pretty, dainty girl, with clear complexion, nut-brown 

*I 201 


202 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


hair, and blue eyes, gave his coat-sleeve a little expostu- 
latory pull. 

‘‘Don’t, Cecil! you are positively rude. There! she 
sees you and resents your impertinence. See how haughty 
she looks.” 

“ Nonsense, Agnes ! I know the lady. I will go speak 
to her.” 

It was not the rapid motion of the train that caused 
Cecil Courtlandt to reel along the aisle just then. He 
stopped in front of her, steadying himself by the arm of 
the seat. 

“Mrs. Hale?” 

Cerise put forth a steady hand, and smiled cordially ; 
there was tumultuous color on her face, but her eyes were 
quiet and clear. 

“ I was so surprised that I was rude, I fear. Did you 
know me?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, I knew you; you have not changed I 
think. But, from all accounts I have had of your im- 
proved health, you ought to look stronger.” 

“Ah, I am strong, stronger than I ever hoped to be !” 

They were gliding over a bridge. Cerise took note, 
mechanically, of every bar and beam, and of a cluster of 
pale-yellow butterflies frightened from a little pool by the 
roadside. 

“And you? you have lost all the roses of your girl- 
hood,” he said. 

“I never had many,” with a sweet, serious smile. 
“I have- been wretchedly feeble and good-for-naught 
for a long time ; but I am well again now, and mean to 
make brave amends for some wasted years.” 

She could not be blind to the emotion on his face. 

“ And you have had trouble ?” 

“Yes; who has not? But, in the main, mine has 


JUSTIFIED. 


203 

been a peaceful and well-guarded life. Is that your sister, 
Colonel Courtlandt?’* 

Yes ; Agnes. May I bring her over to you?” 

Not now \ I will call on her, if she is staying in 
New York.” 

‘‘We are stopping at the St. Nicholas. You reside 
not far from here, Mrs. Hale?” 

“ A few miles only; at Hampden Hill. I am on my 
way to meet my sister. Ah, here we are ! You will tell 
your sister I will call ? Good-morning.” 

He turned to join Agnes, busy with portmanteau and 
umbrella, and Cerise, pulling the little parallelogram of 
perfumed lace down over her ashen lips, leaned her head 
wearily against the ledge of the window. 

The same, the same ! — from the imperial brown-locked 
head to the slow, musical tones of the voice that had set 
her pulses leaping in the music-store at Seaton. The same ! 
What friendly power had aided her in that sudden meet- 
ing ? She had met his glances serenely, her voice had 
betrayed no sign of the fluttering, frightened heart in 
her bosom. But now, now, that it was over, she felt the 
false strength fail her, — a sudden film made her blind to 
the faces about her. 

“ What a lovely woman, Cecil ! Have you known her 
long, dear?” questioned Courtlandt^s pretty sister, fol- 
lowing in his wake with a bouquet of vivid-hued flowers, 
held carefully aloft. 

“Only for a few months, — the winter I went to Italy. 
She has been married for years. It is Mrs. Hale of 
‘Hampden Hill.’” 

“ Miss Farronnade’s friend?” 

“ The same.” 

“What is it, Cecil? Have you exerted yourself too 
much. Let me carry that.” 


204 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


Lilias was surprised and delighted to find Cherry in the 
waiting-room when she reached it. 

But you look tired to death, dear ! It was too much 
for you ; you are so unused to any exertion.’* 

‘‘But I mean to grow used to it; so, Lil, if I look 
tired now and then, don’t tell me of it, ’tis fearfully 
discouraging. What about Fanfarronnade ? Has she an 
idea of matrimony as yet ?” 

“Not an idea!” laughed Lilias. “ I suspect her of 
having given Dandridge his quietus. Did I write you 
that Jock is expected home ? Fan is wild with delight. 
Think of it. Cherry, he has been away nearly ten years?” 

In the short car-ride Cerise told Lilias her plans, and 
was moved into unwonted emotion at the rare delight 
that shone from the sweet blue eyes. 

“I don’t know how I will succeed, Lilias, but I will 
make the effort. You know my favorite writer says, 
‘ he that attempts to change the course of his own life 
often labors in vain.’ I refuted Dr. Johnson’s theory 
once,” with a mysterious smile; “perhaps I shall do so 
again.” 

“ I hope,” she thought, sighing, with a vague sense of 
fear at her heart, — “ I hope it is not another of those 
perilous situations into which circumstances have been 
prone to impel me.” 

So Hampden Hill was renovated and thrown open for 
an evening party. The avenues were lighted ; the house 
from top to bottom abloom with flowers, and Cerise, 
dressed to please her husband, made a superbly beautiful 
hostess in the eyes of those for whose pleasure she was 
exerting herself on this occasion. 

Poor Phil was ubiquitous on that memorable evening. 
Cerise had a revelation of what she had deprived him by 


JUSTIFIED, 


205 


her selfish isolation from the proud delight that glowed 
in his handsome face, the buoyancy of step and tone, 
that proved the sincerity of his enjoyment. No matter 
that in the long summer to follow the pleasures would 
pall upon her taste, the gayety sicken and tire her to the 
uttermost, she would not refuse the sacrifice of her own 
selfish inclinations to give him happiness. But she had 
wasted so many years! After all, her life was a more 
pitiable failure, in honor and all else, than if she had 
left him to overlive her memory, and marry some one 
who could have given him the substance instead of the 
semblance of a love that was not her own to give. It 
was a failure, unless he had missed nothing that he had 
the right to expect from her. You cannoK: know wLth 
what breathless anxiety she asked him this question when 
the guests were all gone and they had retired to the pri- 
vacy of their own room. 

‘‘I am consumed with remorse, Philip,^* she said. 

To-night for the first time I have seen how much you 
have missed by making me your wife.’^ 

‘‘ Cherry, what do you mean he asked, stopping mid- 
way a yawn in his surprise. ‘‘ I think you are an expert 
at hunting up imaginary grievances. I have really missed 
nothing, my darling ; you have compensated for all that 
I might have cared to retain before you belonged to me. 
Is it that you like to hear me talk like a foolish boy that 
you say these things ? My darling, I cannot think what 
my life would have been without you. I do believe,’’ 
proudly, and with a fervent arm-clasp, — ‘‘I do believe 
you are the truest wife that ever lived I” 

And in that sentence Cherry read the justification of 
her life-long sacrifice 1 

‘‘The whole world is going out to Hampden Hill to- 
night,” Courtlandt had said to his sister that evening. 

18 


2o6 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


Then why are we not going?’’ asked pretty Agnes, 
with an indignant poise of her graceful little head. 

‘‘ For the simple reason that we are not asked.” 

But Mrs. Hale said she would call.” 

“ So she did ; but these society-women are not always 
supposed to mean what they say.” 

‘‘ I always mean what I say.” 

“But you are no society-woman, — you are my nurse, — 
the world has no claims on you,” playfully. 

“Oh, you monster ! I am eighteen; old enough to be 
married.” 

“ Hush! you would not be happy in the world were 
you there.” 

“ Would I not, Cecil? I believe I should be perfectly 
happy. There are so many brave, smiling men and laugh- 
ing women that we meet. Mrs. Hale, for instance, she 
looks like a serene-eyed picture of peace. The world has 
made her happy or she would never wear that expression.” 

“You do not know; she may have gone over leagues 
of turbulent, troublous waters to have gained that calm ; 
and after all the serenity may mean nothing. In the 
world men and women do not wear their hearts upon their 
sleeves. ‘ Heaven’s Sovereign saves all beings but himself. 
That hideous sight, — a naked human heart 1’ ” 

There was such profound sadness in his face that Agnes, 
who gauged her moods by his, went over to his side and 
caressed his face with her slender, soft hands. 

“ Don’t you fear, you old darling I I haven’t any mind 
so far as matrimony goes. I will stay with you until ” 

But Courtlandt smiled sadly up into her face, hushing 
the mocking lightness of her tone by the solemnity of his, 
“until I die ?” 

She made a violent effort to resume her gay carelessness, 
but her face turned pale. 


JUSTIFIED. 


207 


^^Oh, that will be years and years, and I will be such 
a withered little wretch that no one will care to woo me.” 

‘‘ Perhaps not,” touching the brown hair that was rolled 
back from her face, — enchantingly childlike and fair. 
shall never marry, but I shall want tender hands to caress 
me in my last hours, so I bind you to me for that long, 
little one.” 

The bright lips were quivering now. 

‘‘ Don’t, 'Cecil ! there are only two of us; what would 
one do without the other ? You seem like my father, 
Cecil, so good, so gentle, and so old.” 

He smiled at the climax. 

^‘What is the matter, Cecil? Are you worse to- 
day?” 

‘‘No, I do not believe that I am worse, but I think 
you should accustom yourself to the idea that you and I 
must part some day.” 

“ But, I don’t want to think of it. I could not live 
without you. Oh, Cecil, you are better, stronger ; you 
have less of those dreadful hemorrhages every year !” 

“ Joujou, if you had been in prison many years, would 
you not be thankful for the free sunlight ? My poor weak 
body has been my prison-house so long !” 

“And you would hQ glad to die, Cecil?” 

The child spoke in low, hushed tones. 

“ Not glad, because, Joujou, you would be left so lonely ; 
but if it were not for that, oh, my darling, I would be 
more than glad to die !” 

She hid her face in his bosom, and he could feel the light 
form tremble in his arms. 

“ Have you had much to trouble you, Cecil?” she asked 
at length, very softly, lifting her face to meet his eyes. 

His reassuring smile was sweet almost to pain. 

“Joujou, you may not understand when I tell you 


2o8 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


that the one deep trouble of my otherwise fortunate life 
swallowed up all minor pains and anxieties, apart from 
you. In a measure I have overlived it, but the whole 
aspect of my life was changed by it. Years back I had a 
vision of a home in store for me, — a home with wife and 
children, — a rude awakening dispelled the illusion of my 
dream, so here am I to-day, alone but for you, yet very 
strong and contented in the prospect ahead.” 

Agnes dropped her head upon his breast again to hide 
the tears welling up into her eyes. 

My poor Cecil, I never knew that you had loved, — 
I ” 

The poorly-suppressed sobs broke forth. 

Agnes, hush ! This is not the requital for my confi- 
dence I expected. It happened years ago. I struggled 
against it then, and almost questioned God’s right to 
chastise me so bitterly, but I have come to think it 
best. A wretched life it would have been for the woman 
I loved, hunting after rest and ease for this suffering body 
of mine, the grim spectre of death coming ever between 
us, looming ever ahead. It has been hard for you, little 
one.” 

‘‘I never thought of it in that light ;” the sweet young 
voice was broken. ‘‘It was lovely, the most of it; our 
long, long journeys, the beautiful countries, the pictures 
and gems we have collected. And death, — I never thought 
of death, only when you lay in those terrible lethargies. 
But you are stronger, — indeed, indeed, you are !” 

“I know it, or I could not talk over this with you. 
Child, it has been years since I have allowed myself calmly 
to review that episode of my past.” 

“ Cecil, did she love you, — that woman?” 

The latent beauty of that pale, peculiar face all flashed 
out in the lambent, tender smile that flooded it. 


JUSTIFIED. 


209 

‘‘ Ay, she loved me — poor little girl ! — as well as I loved 
her.’^ The rich tones faltered. 

A pause in the quiet room, growing dark with evening 
shadows, then Agnes timidly stole a hand in his. ‘‘ Cecil, 
forgive me; but why could you not be married?^* 

‘‘Why? Because she was bound to another, and she 
held her honor — as she called it — above her happiness. 
Go, child, and forget, if you can, what I have just told 
you. It is not often that I care to think, much less speak 
of that epoch of my fruitless life. God is very good to 
me, but until he vouchsafe me the strength of an angel I 
shall never quite outlive the misery of that moment.” 

He was rising to go, but Agnes flung her arms around 
him, and he saw that her young face was piteous in its 
expression of grief. 

“Stay here, Cecil, — dearest brother, — I will be very- 
quiet ; only don’t go off alone !” 

He allowed himself to be settled comfortably on the 
sofa, and lay there long, while Agnes wept in silence by 
the window. 

After a long interval he called, but his voice was 
strangely faint. The girl went over to him in the gloom, 
stumbling, in her eager dread, over the tables and otto- 
mans in the room. 

He spoke with an effort. 

“ Ice, if you please, Agnes. Oh, God ! the strength of 
an angel ! I have not the common strength of a man.” 

And there was something nearer to bitterness in his 
voice than had come there for many years. 

He held out his handkerchief, and Agnes made out in 
the uncertain light the bodeful brown-red spots that al- 
ways made her heart stand still with suffocating terror. 

18* 


CHAPTER XX. 


A SCHEDULE. 

Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and then quit a 
country where I must forever despair of finding my own ." — The Good- 
Natured Man. 


Agnes was reading Beranger to her brother. Her 
accent was faultless, the intonations of her voice tasteful 
and musical, and Courtland’s face wore its most tranquil 
expression. He lay back in his easy-chair when she 
closed the book, the care-free smile of the years agone 
on his lips. 

Beranger loved Judith his whole life long,” he said ; 

he was honest, tender, faithful, gentle, and generous, — 
a quintette of virtues that crown him with something bet- 
ter than his laurels.” 

‘‘Yes?” said Agnes, acquiescingly, with that soft, 
little interrogative note in her voice. 

“ That is why Beranger is your favorite of all the 
poets. I knew you had some good and wise reason,” 
with a reverend glance upward at the white, serene face ; 
“but Coleridge is mine. There is something so mystic 
and fine in all he writes. Is not ‘ The Rime of the An- 
cient Mariner’ the most beautiful and wonderful thing 
that was ever written ?” 

“Just a little too mystic, I think. It justifies the lam- 
poon that Coleridge himself, under a fictitious name, 
wrote for the Morning Post concerning it : 

210 


A SCHEDULE. 


211 


* Your poem must eternal be, 
Dear sir, it cannot fail ; 

For His incomprehensible. 
Without head or tail I’ ” 


Agnes looked her chagrin, but took up the cudgels in 
behalf of her favorite. 

‘‘Brother Cecil, have you read ‘The Nightingale’? 
That has not a fault, I am sure.” 

“ Yes her brother smiled in an amused sort of way. 
“ Coleridge makes a big mistake when he says, — 

* In nature there is nothing melancholy. 


“ But, but, where he says, — 

' ’Tis the merry nightingale 
That crowds and hurries and precipitates. 

With fast, thick warbles, his delicious notes. 

As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chaunt 1’ 

and the rest of that ?” 

Her brother nodded unqualified approval. 

“ And, Cecil, farther on, where he describes the grove 
‘ wild with tangling underwood, and the grass, thin grass y 
and kmgcups Oh, it is delicious !” 

“You have good taste, Joujou.” 

“ Have I? I am so glad ; I do so want to have good 
taste in such things. . I know what pleases me. I could 
roll in the thin grass and bathe my face in the fragrance 
of the kingcups, and then I am wild with delight when 
the ‘ moon emerges’ and the wakeful birds all burst 
forth — 

‘ As if one quick and sudden gale had swept 
One hundred airy harps.’ 


212 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


And some sentences fasten upon me, — I cannot forget 
them, — as, for instance, — 

‘ Her face was white as leprosy.’ ” 

A servant rapped at the door and presented a card. 

‘‘ Oh, Cecil, it is Mrs. Hale ; and her sister, I suppose ! 
See the name written across with a pencil, — ‘ Lilias Hil- 
ton.’ ” 

‘‘Don’t keep them waiting; you are quite present- 
able.” 

“ But, Cecil, you said she was a society-woman, — what 
will she think of this muslin ?” 

“No matter, you need not care; besides, I have an 
idea she won’t trouble herself about what you wear.” 

Agnes forgot her questionable toilet when once in 
the St. Nicholas parlor with her visitors. She thought 
she had never met two lovelier women than these, al- 
though they were very different. Mrs. Hale, with her 
large, clear eyes, with veiled depths of sadness in them, 
her white face and her wonderful russet-tinted hair falling 
in a soft, slightly-curled fringe on her broad brow. Miss 
Hilton, with her infantile blue eyes, tender and sweet, 
her soft, bloomy complexion, and her light, silken hair 
escaping from its fashionable coiffure in little rings, while 
a single, long ringlet gleamed a ripple of light on her 
shoulder. Agnes, the unsophisticated, thought society- 
women must be very charming if Mrs. Hale was a speci- 
men ; and Miss Hilton was so childlike, yet dignified 
withal, so quietly pleasant and joyous, that Agnes, with 
the way of most people, fell to loving her at first sight. 

“ My brother, I am sure, regrets his inability to see 
you,” Agnes said at parting. “ He has been more of an 
invalid than usual of late, — but,” with a hopeful smile 


A SCHEDULE, 


213 

that warmed Cherry’s heart toward her, I will nurse 
him back to health presently.” 

‘‘ Has Colonel Courtlandt been ill?” 

It was Miss Hilton who spoke. 

Not ill ; but he is never, never well, though I will not 
admit it to him ; not that he is ever anything but patient 
and good; but naturally his ill health is depressing.” 

Mrs. Hale smiled mournfully. 

“ Don’t make excuses for your brother. Miss Courtlandt. 
I know well the uncertain tenor of the spirits when suffer- 
ing preys upon the body. I have only of late begun to 
entertain my friends and go out into the world a little, 
though,” with a half-apologetic glance at Lilias, ‘‘I sus- 
pect I gave up a little too readily to that inevitable attend- 
ant of disease, — the blues. But I am growing well and 
strong now,” — a quick flush warming the pale face, — and 
I shall write a new schedule for the coming year. Won’t 
you come over to Hampden Hill and tell me if you ap- 
prove of it ?” 

They were leaving now, and Cherry had taken the young 
girl’s hand. There was something in the fresh, innocent 
face that charmed her. 

^‘Ah! you are offended, perhaps, at my want of pro- 
priety and politeness,” as the young girl hesitated. ‘‘I 
was ashamed that I had not called in time to have you 
at my initial party, — if you will allow me the terra, — but, 
believe me, it was impossible.” 

Agnes protested eagerly. . 

“Indeed you mistake. I did expect you,” naively; 
“but, I thought perhaps you might not remember; and 
then ” 

Mrs. Hale laughed, interrupting her. 

“ ‘And then’ you took me for one of these fine fanciful 
butterflies, yclept fashionable women 1” 


214 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


Agnes nodded. I know nothing of society except 
from hearsay. Brother Cecil and I have been cosmopo- 
lites ever since I left school. But I have liked it so much 
better than being in the gay world, I believe.’* 

‘‘ Anything is better than being in the gay world, Miss 
Courtlandt.” 

Lilias looked up in surprise, and Cerise, though she had 
spoken unguardedly, did not retract her words. 

‘Better than all is rest,’ you know,” she added, with 
one of her inexpressibly mournful smiles, “and in the 
world one can find so little rest.” 

Then the ladies went out to their carriage, and Agnes 
ran back up the stairs and along the corridor to her 
brother’s room. She found him sitting by the window, 
his bolstered chair vacated. 

“Why, Cecil !” for he looked wan and tired. 

“Yes; I am glad you have come. Help me to the 
lounge, little one. There. Now for the particulars that 
your feminine tongue is aching to recount. It was rather 
a long conventional call, was it not?” 

“I don’t know anything about conventional calls, 
Cecil, but this was the very nicest one I ever received. 
Mrs. Hale is no society-woman, and Miss Hilton — 
Lilias her sister called her— looks like a child in fash- 
ionable head-fixings and trails. Do you know her? No ? 
Well, she is lovely.” Then, after a pause, “Mrs. Hale 
made me think of that verse in my favorite poem, — 

* He prayeth best who loveth best.’ 

She wants me to come out to Hampden Hill, — and, 
Cecil, I hope you will soon be able to go. She said she 
had notipng been going out and entertaining her friends, — 
that there was so little rest to be found in the gay world ; 
then her eyes filled with tears, and, somehow, I thought 


A SCHEDULE, 


215 


Miss Hilton looked surprised. Do you remember Mrs. 
Hale’s eyes, Cecil ? Such beautiful eyes ! dark and clear 
and mystic-looking as though there was something hidden 
away back of them, — something that would make you 
understand why they look so drearily sad even when she 
smiles.” 

‘‘Yes, I remember them perfectly; I have never seen 
any like them.” 

“And her hair, Cecil! I could have exclaimed with 
delight over its beauty.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But she does not look happy, Cecil ; though her ex- 
pression is serene, she does not look happy, when you 
come to study her face.” 

“ What did I tell you ?” 

“That ‘the serenity might mean nothing?’ True 
enough ; but why should she not be happy with friends 
and wealth and position, — everything to make her so?” 

“ I believe I am tired, little one ; cover me up, and 
leave me awhile. There, kiss me, Joujou. God keep your 
life happy, my child !” 

So she left him to rest. But there was no rest for 
him then, the innocent, unconscious prattle of the girl 
had sent his soul drifting, backward to the past, — the 
brief, bitter-sweet past, — so meteor-like in its fleeting 
brightness that he had not retained even a single lus- 
trous ray of all its exquisite color. He had long ago 
lost the keen, fierce desire for his forbidden happiness, 
but he still found a sad pleasure in the memory of what 
it might have been to him ; and, though ofttimes when 
weakened by disease and torn by impotent longing for 
the joys that most men find in life, he prayed that 
God might mercifully banish the haunting memory from 
his brain, yet he knew, with England’s sweetest singer, 


2I6 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


that his days would not be happier should he e’er for- 
get. 

* Hi * * Hi * * 

Lilias and Cerise were on the shady side of the house, 
and the two seemed to have reversed characters, for it 
was Lilias who was lounging lazily, and Cerise who was 
busily industrious. 

‘‘ Won’t you put up that pen. Cherry, and talk?” 

‘‘ Not now, Lil ; I promised this to Alice by Saturday, 
and to-day is Wednesday; don’t tempt me, that’s a 
good girl.” 

‘‘This” was nothing less than an additional part to 
the cantanta of “The Flower Queen,” which Alice, in 
her turn at Norbourne, had solicited of Cherry. Alice 
was Snap Dragon in that pretty, fanciful operetta, and she 
wanted a solo to suit the flower-character. “You know. 
Cherry,” she wrote, “ I get very mad and vow I will be 
queen, then when my sister-flowers remonstrate, I have 
nothing to say, which looks very dumb indeed in the 
Snap Dragon. I look to you to supply the deficiency.” 
So Cherry, after reading the cantata, fell to work to do 
what she could to gratify the whim of the petted baby of 
the house. 

“ Hear, Lil,” she says, at last, “will it do? 

“ ‘ Say no more, — I’m conquered, conquered, 

All my waywardness is gone ; 

All my pride and all my anger 
Melted by your loving tone. 

See, I come ; I crave forgiveness 

From each flower that ’round me blows. 

Let us haste, the hours are fleeting ! 

Let us haste to crown our Rose !’ ” 

“ ‘ See, I come, I crave forgiveness !’ Oh, Minerva, 
wise as ever, my dearest !” cried a mocking voice from 


A SCHEDULE. 


217 


the hall-door, and they turned to see Fanfarronnade, — 
a little fashion-plate in dress and appurtenances, but with 
genuine tears in her bright blue eyes despite the audacity 
of her demeanor. 

Cerise flung the paper on the little table, and turned to 
take Fan in her arms. 

My dear Fan ! my darling little bluster ! It has been 
so long 

‘‘Are you glad to see me. Cherry? I never loved any- 
thing as I do you !” incoherently; then, she threw her- 
self into a chair and fanned vigorously, ignoring Lilias’s 
quiet yet very persistent gaze. 

It was too much for her at last. 

“ Lil, stop staring like an owl ! My blessed child, 
what you see ?” 

“ I see you acting and looking as you have never done 
before.’^ 

Fan blushed as ardently red as any carnation in the 
beds outside. 

“ You are hiding something, Fanfarronnade,^^ per- 
sisted Lilias. 

Then Fan treated them both to a peal of as jolly ring- 
ing laughter as ever escaped from the larynx of a hobble- 
de-hoy school-boy. 

“ Absurd ! Give me an opportunity to tell my errand, 
won’t you ? I am engaged to attend a lecture to-night at 

Hall and so I begged papa for Yantis and the horses, 

— it is his evening out, you know, — so that I might come 
out and take you and Cherry in to hear it. Mr. Lindsay 
is the lecturer, — just home from Europe, with an endless 
reputation. They do say he is a little misty and specula- 
tive, but I knew that would suit Cherry.” 

“Lindsay?” said Cherry, looking meditatively at 
Fan. 


K 


19 


2i8 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


Fanfarronnade forbore to return the unconscious regard 
of her friend, and stood tapping the toe of her dainty 
French boot with her parasol handle. 

‘^The name is familiar from our association with Mr. 
Lindsay, Jack and Jill Dawes^s tutor,’* supplied Lilias. 

Cherry’s face brightened. 

‘‘ To be sure ! how faithless my memory has grown ! 
But it can never be he ! Dominie Sampson turned lec- 
turer and art-critic !” 

They were not observing that Fan had suddenly grown 
crimson again, that the exquisite little mauve parasol was 
beating a rapid tattoo upon the hall pavement. 

don’t know,” said Lilias, ‘‘there was lots and lots 
in him,” lapsing into the slang of the day. “ I used to 
think he only needed fostering circum^^tu.ices to make him 
something beyond the usual.” 

“ Nonsense, child ! you were a baby then, and I was not 
much more ; but I am sure no amount of circumstances 
could deprive him of his lante m jaws and shuffling, awk- 
ward feet. He was a genuine Mr. Saul, Fan. You re- 
member how you quarrelled with Trollope for making 
pretty Fannie Clavering marry him?” 

“ Oh, I was a baby then, too ! I wonder that you re- 
member it. Cherry. Somehow, I like awkwardness ; there 
is something distinctive about it, — any ball-room fop can 
be graceful, but every graceful fool cannot be good and 
noble and talented. I believe I was an idiot when I said 
that about Mr. Saul.” 

Fan cut her words off with acerbity, and the suspicious 
color was warm on her brow. 

Cerise smiled in a slightly astonished way. 

“ Why, Fan, you talk as though you had fallen in love 
with an awkward man, and defied me or any one else to 
mock your choice.” 


A SCHEDULE. 


219 


‘‘Fallen in love contemptuously repeated Miss Far- 
ronnade, giving her parasol an .extra twirl ; that little 
accessory had done duty in the way of punctuating her 
remarks since she had been talking. “ How I hate that 
senseless expression ! It is so generally misapplied ; be- 
sides, it expresses nothing.** * 

“I never knew you so critical, Fanfarronnade ; some 
change has come o*er the spirit of your dream. Then 
you mean to walk warily, gradually, cautiously into love 
like your namesake in Trollope, who refused Mr. Saul 
until her father was Lord Clavering and could give him 
a living.** 

“No,** laughed Lilias, “Fanfarronnade will ‘fall in 
love,* — like the man who stepped in the dark over a 
chasm, — what she will find at the bottom remains to be 
seen.** 

“ I shall be apt to find myself at the bottom, minus 
some of my appurtenances, if not altogether demolished. 
But you will go ?’* 

“Wait until Philip comes; perhaps he would like it 
too.** 

Fan sniffed in mock disdain. 

“ Do you know, if ever I am idiotic enough to hinge 
my life on to another, I will never be the model Cherry 
is. She is a slave to Phil !** 

But there was a loving light in her eyes that belied her 
words. 

Cerise, gathering up her writing materials, flushed as 
she always did at such allusions. 

“ I am never as good to Phil as he deserves.** 

“I know, my dear, he is a model husband. I was 
telling Colonel Courtlandt only last night what an excep- 
tional pair you were, how sufficient unto each other, etc. 
Apropos, what did you think of Agnes?** 


220 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


“ She is very attractive,” Cherry replied, almost in- 
audibly. 

have never seen that wonderful Colonel Court- 
landt/’ said Lilias. 

‘‘Then you have a delightful treat in store, my dear,'* 
interpoSted Fan. I shall introduce him to-night. He 
is even more irresistible than he was ten years ago. But 
he is ages too old for you, Lil. He was mad about Cherry 
once, I know." 

For an instant angry color swept over Cherry's face, 
but she imperiously fought it down. 

“ You are as aimless a rattlepate as ever. Fan. I only 
knew Colonel Courtlandt that one winter I spent with 
you." 

“ One winter is as good as a century in the calendar of 
Cupid. It is no secret that he was half-dead for love of 
you then, and has lived single all these years on account 
of it." 

There was no longer a curb put upon the anger that 
surged in her heart. She turned a very proud crimson 
face upon the dauntless little gossip. 

“ Who dares say such a thing of him ?" 

“ I tell you it has been publicly discussed. Aurelia 
Doyle says it was all the talk at Nahant when Colonel 
Courtlandt wandered about there several years ago, — 
looking like a distingue ghost in fine linen and broad- 
cloth. Oh, Cherry, you are a celebrity at Nahant !" 

“Society ruins women like you. Fan," Cerise said, 
seriously. /‘I know the day when you would have 
scorned to listen to such gossip as Aurelia is given to 
retailing, much less have wounded me by repeating it." 

There were tears in her eyes, and the hands that were 
lifted to her face were trembling. Fan was disarmed. 

“ Why, Cherry ! I knew it to be one of Aurelia Doyle’s 


A SCHEDULE. 


221 


fictions, invented with the hope that it might reach 
Philip’s ears. I thought you would laugh. There can 
be no truth in all that garbled tale she tells about you 
and the colonel. I meant to entertain you with a speci- 
men of our old classmate’s inventive powers.” 

Cerise trembled ; Lilias was regarding her with meekly- 
troubled eyes, and did Cerise only imagine that her face 
had suddenly grown pale? Was that one unfortunate 
episode of her life to thicken and widen and shoot out 
banyan-like, until its roots should strike to the hearts 
of those who loved her ? 

Why should Aurelia care to poison Philip’s mind 
with such stories? What could she gain by such a 
course ?” 

‘‘If you were not so innocent. Cherry, I should grow 
furiously angry with you. Aurelia has never forgiven 
you for winning the game in which she had a hand ; 
you frustrated a beautiful plan of hers when you mar- 
ried Phil. Don’t look so vague. Cherry ! Can’t you 
understand that she loved your husband and wanted him 
for herself?” 

This, then, explained the series of petty revenges to 
which Aurelia had lent herself. 

I hope you are mistaken. Fan. At all events, I would 
rather you had not told me. And, Fan, don’t bring any 
gossip to me, please ; you know I never liked it at school, 
and I have been out of your world so long that I shall 
not try now to fall in with its modes, only so far as they 
are pleasant to me.” 

All the careful dressing in the world could not banish 
the perplexity from Lilias’s face that evening, and as was 
most unusual. Cerise did not ask her why she wore that 
deep line above her brows. 

Those who noticed Mr. and Mrs. Hale that evening 
19* 


222 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


remarked to one another what a well-matched couple, 
how proud a man he ought to be, how happy a woman 
she. 

It makes me laugh sometimes, albeit, drearily enough, at 
the gauge that others put upon our existences, the plum- 
mets they send sounding down into our lives, the depths 
they reckon therefrom. Why, it is one of the most fre- 
quent occurrences in the course of human events to hear 
others recount the blessings of our lives, to have them 
explain to us why we of all people have most cause to be 
grateful to the Almighty, and we smile though our lips 
are dumb, and seek to cover up the gaping voids in our 
lives by shallow observances. 

Well, there are some, men and women, who can cheat 
the wise, far-seeing world by their patient, mute endur- 
ance, but it is a rare quality, for wounded animals in- 
stinctively cry out when in pain, and the human, a few 
grades above, finds nature hard to restrain. 

It is hard to suffer in silence. Cerise felt that doubly 
to-night. She could have shrieked in the impotence of 
her mental anguish. It was not for the old dream that her 
heart ached to-night. No, no ! long ago she had thrust 
that thought from her with the throes of a mighty struggle. 
It was a keen fear and a vain regret that pierced her heart 
beneath the flowers that lay so lightly above it, while the 
admiring multitude whispered encomiums upon her serene, 
high-bred beauty. Fear lest Philip, her husband, should 
ever be made miserable by the heartless gossip Fan had 
retailed that evening; regret that a single epoch of her 
life should have swallowed up all joy, all peace, all rest 
from her future. 

Some have trouble early or late, — trouble that turns 
the hair gray ; but they can forget, they can awake to new 
life and hope some day. Am I more constant than human 


A SCHEDULE. 


223 


nature as it goes, or more stubborn that this sorrow of my 
early youth pursues me so closely?’^ 

Fan touched her shoulder; fronting them, advancing 
toward the footlights came the lecturer ; a tall, middle- 
aged man, his locks sprinkled plentifully with gray, with 
thoughtful, tender eyes, a pleasant mouth, but it must be 
acknowledged, lantern-jawed, large-nosed, and unmis- 
takably stoop-shouldered. 

“Cherry! Cherry!*’ 

Lilias’s face had lost its perplexity, she was smiling with 
the pleased ardor of a child. 

“It is really Mr. Lindsay, — ^Jack and Jill Dawes’s 
tutor!” 

Cherry had no time for reply, she only looked wonder- 
ingly at Fan, laughing undisguisedly and blushing oddly ; 
then she gave herself up to the magic of his delivery. 
There were tears streaming down her face many times 
during that wonderful lecture. 

Agnes Courtlandt, sitting with her brother, looked in 
amaze at the abandonment of her emotion. 

“ Oh, Cecil,” she whispered, she is no society-woman ; 
they never forget themselves so, I am sure.” 

“You have too much sympathy, Joujou, you will not 
hear half the lecture. Mrs. Hale has lost a child, the 
tender reminders of the lecturer are too much for her.” 

“ Cecil, may I go speak to her after the lecture is 
over ?” 

“Certainly, Joujou, you may; but I am not equal to 
pushing you through this crowd.” 

“ Then may I bring her here? I know you would like 
to see her ; there are so few times when your face lights 
up as it does when you look at her.” 

Cecil Courtlandt caught his breath a trifle, looking 
steadily into his sister’s face; but her eyes met his un- 


224 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


waveringly: there was nothing hidden in their clear 
depths. 

‘‘Well, she is pleasant to look at, is she not? like a 
painting, or statue, I should say, seeing there is so little 
color in her face. Then, too, I have heard she is a beau- 
tiful character, — tender, faithful, gentle.** 

“A la Beranger !** laughed Agnes, softly. 

“Lil, you have made an involuntary conquest !** ex- 
claimed Fan. 

“ There, don*t you see that gentleman, four seats in 
front, to the left ; he has not taken his eyes off you since 
the orchestra commenced.** 

Lilias turned her head, flushing a little at the bold 
regard of a pair of wide blue eyes. It was a cursory 
glance she gave him, but in it she observed with in- 
terest the pose of the athletic form. Then Agnes Court- 
landt came hurrying up in her impulsive fashion, and, 
with a polite bow to Lilias, caught Cherry*s outstretched 
hand. 

“Mrs. Hale, won*t you come with me for a moment? 
Cecil is too tired to push through the crowd to see you, 
and I so want you to make him promise he will bring me 
to Hampden Hill.** 

Mrs. Hale pressed the little hand between both her own. 

“I am not able myself to-night,** she said, “but I 
think he will let you come. Tell him for me that I want 
you for one of my particular friends.** The pale face was 
inexpressibly tender and winning. 

“ Ah !’* whispered Agnes, smoothing the soft hand she 
held. “ I never knew you had lost a child. I am so 
sorry, — you loved it so?** 

Cerise never knew with what an agony of repressed 
emotion she dropped the girFs hand. 


A SCHEDU.IE. 


225 


Don’t speak of that, — I can never suffer so again.” 
Then after a pause, in which she strove visibly to regain 
composure of face and voice, — 

My dear — Miss Courtlandt ” 

Oh, you were not going to say that ! Just ‘ my dear,’ 
were you not ?” 

‘‘I believe I was,” unsteadily. You seem such a 
child, one forgets to be conventional with you.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe you ever feel conventional. Ah ! 
here he is after all the excuses I have made for him. 
Cecil!” 

True enough. Colonel Courtlandt was near, and behind 
him the gallant-looking stranger of whom Lilias had 
made a conquest. 

‘‘ Has Joujou been bothering you ?” asked the colonel 
of Mrs. Hale. ‘‘ She is a sad little pest when she takes 
a notion.” 

Then he stepped aside to disclose his companion, with 
an eager, boyish smile upon his lips and the light of 
expectant pleasure in his eyes. 

“Will you allow me to introduce an old friend, Mrs. 
Hale, one who holds a prior claim upon you to any of 
our good friends here?” 

The gentleman held out a hand. 

“ I could never have forgotten your face though your 
name is new to me ; Willie Craighton used to call you 
Cherry, madame.” 

Cerise uttered an irrepressible cry, low, but vibrant 
with delight. 

“ Willie Craighton, my dear boy !” Her white hands 
were on his arm, her eyes raised in unquestioning wel- 
come to his own. That bearded stranger the fair-haired, 
capricious little invalid she had nursed in the College 
Infirmary! “Forgive me!” The hands fell from his 

K* 


226 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


arm, and a warm flush mounted to the white brow of the 
woman. 

No, no ! I am always a boy to you, Mrs. Hale.*' 
Then call me Cherry as you did in those old days. 
Willie, I am very proud and happy to think you remem- 
ber me. When did you come ? What brought you here ? 
But wait 1 To-morrow you must come to Hampden Hill, 
and then for reminiscences old and new. Philip, do you 
remember my patient, Willie Craighton? Shake hands 
with this gentleman.** 

Philip was boisterous in his greeting. 

‘‘You were an ungrateful little dog in those days,** he 
said, laughingly. 

“Ah, yes; but you should not complain, you have 
enjoyed a monopoly of Cherry so long.** 

“ Why, sir, do you blame me?** turning to Courtlandt, 
“just as Cherry was cuddling over me and petting me, 
and talking in that delicious little whisper of hers, here 
would come Philip whistling down the hall with white 
grapes and music-boxes to scare Cherry away. Cherry I 
worth all the white grapes and music-boxes in the world.** 

Courtlandt*s eyes inadvertently turned to the subject 
of Willie*s encomium. 

In her flowing white draperies, with the little bunch 
of scarlet flowers fastened close up to her throat, and the 
corresponding knot in her low, clustering hair, with the 
serene upward glance of her sad, dark eyes, the quiet 
clasp of her small white hands, she was so unlike the 
radiant, blooming girl he had once known, that he 
wondered vaguely, with his eyes still fastened dreamily 
upon her face, if she could be the same in heart and soul 
as then. 

The same ! That white, subdued woman with the 
patient mouth drooping at the corners, and the weary 


A SCHEDULE. 


227 


bend of the graceful head. Then the cheeks were warm 
with color, the mouth eager with childlike curves, pride 
in every movement of the small, well-poised head. 

And yet she was something better and nobler than the 
same he felt. The bloom and insouciance of her early 
youth had departed, but in their place was the mellow 
charm of matured womanhood, outshining the grace of 
her girlhood. No eyes that had ever looked into his 
bore the story of brave and unflinching truth that did 
hers. The crowd had drifted into oblivion ; only they 
two stood together, and in her calm, noble face he read 
the patient endeavor of her life, the record of the battles 
fought out unflaggingly. 

She met his eyes, filled with that irrepressible yearning 
and solicitude, and turned from him suddenly, with a 
sickening sensation as though a dead face had thrust 
itself before her own. 

‘‘Let me introduce you to my sister. Miss Hilton, the 
Lilias of whom I used to tell you stories,” she said to 
Willie Craighton ; “and this is Miss Farronnade; you 
remember her I am sure ?” 

“No, no. Cherry!” protested Miss Farronnade ; “I 
won’t have that disgraceful memory of my school-life re- 
vived. Mr. Craighton, I throw myself upon your mercy 1” 

Willie Craighton laughed merrily. 

“ Miss Farronnade, I believe I have come to look upon 
that episode as one of the most fortunate of my life,” 
with a bold, admiring glance at Lilias, standing quiet 
and observant at Cherry’s side. 

“ I want your sister at Hampden, colonel,” Mrs. Hale 
said at parting. “ You can spare her a short time.” 

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hale!” cried Agnes. “He can never 
spare me for an hour ; he can take me to Hampden him- 
self, if he will , — make him say yes.” 


228 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


For an instant Cerise faltered, an uncertain color drift- 
ing over her white face. Colonel Courtlandt put Agnes’s 
hand in his arm. 

Joujou shall go, certainly; but a whimsical crotchety 
invalid would make but a sorry guest anywhere.” 

There was a hard look of pain in his eyes, but Cerise, 
looking downward, did not see it. 

Come, if it will give your sister pleasure,” she said, 
in a low tone; ^‘you can be secure from intrusion, I 
assure you. Hampden is a little palace in its number of 
apartments.” 

Then Philip came up and added his entreaties, so that 
Courtlandt was forced to give some sort of promise. 

Fan was nudging Cherry’s arm. 

‘‘ Here is Mr. Lindsay. Aren’t you going to speak to 
him ?” 

Cerise sighed a little, wearily. What a night of ad- 
ventures ! Yes, there he was. Jack and Jill’s quondam 
tutor, ugly and awkward as ever; but, as of old, the 
mouth and eyes redeemed the face, and Cerise, despite 
her weariness, was warmed into a glow by his cordial 
recognition. He, too, was invited to join the party at 
Hampden for the next week, and his assent was un- 
qualified. 

‘‘He is more like Mr. Saul than ever, — except on the 
rostrum, there he is divine !” said Cerise to Fan, as they 
were driving homeward. “ Where did you meet him, 
Fan? On the trip with Leila’s bridal-party? Well, who 
would ever have predicted such a future for Dominie 
Sampson. It will be a surprise to papa, Lilias. Do you 
remember in the old wood at home, when I fastened my 
fall bouquet in his button-hole and told him his honors 
were to come to him late in life ? Of course. Fan, you 
will join them at Hampden ; come any time, and watch 


A SCHEDULE, 


229 

them all drop in. What a motley party it will be ! I shall 
never be able to pair them.” 

Lilias and Willie Craighton,” suggested Fan. ‘ Any 
one with half an eye can see how fearfully that little 
middy is smitten. Won^t it be nice to cruise around, 
Lil? You can bring us such lovely things: lava sets, 
Neapolitan carvings, and Barcelona fans, — things that 
cost an immensity here, unless we smuggle them.” 

‘‘ Fanfarronnade and Lindsay,” retorted Lilias, ^‘though 
it would take a whole eye to see the congruity of such a 
couple !” 

This quietus had the desired effect. 

‘‘And Courtlandt, Cherry; we must have a lady for 
Courtlandt.” 

“And a man for Agnes,” added Fan. 

“Agnes is inseparable from her brother,” said Cherry, 
quietly; “and if he come, which I doubt, we must make 
no demands upon his time or attention. I have promised 
him that much.” 

“ Cherry,” said Philip, the last thing that night, “ don’t 
forget Aurelia in this party you are making up ; I feel 
that she has claims upon me.” 

“Then you would have me invite Aurelia ?” she asked. 

“Yes; unless it be too disagreeable to you.” 

Lilias rallied her sister next morning upon the tardiness 
with which she set about preparing for her visitors. 

“ Fan,” asked Cerise, at breakfast, “ is your brother, — 
is Mr. Jock in New York?” 

“Yes.” Fan did not look up, and escaped the sight 
of Cherry’s face grown suddenly crimson. 

“ Philip thought — I thought it might be pleasant for 
him to meet the rest here, — a party of eight. Odd num- 
bers are inconvenient, don’t you think?” with a pitiful 
attempt at carelessness. 


20 


230 


FOR HONORIS SAA^F, 


Oh, no ; not if the odds be on the men’s side. Per- 
haps Jock can come ; at all events I will write. He will 
be most grateful, I am sure.” 

Nonsense, Fan !” 

And who makes out the fourth couple. Cherry, — 
what lady ?’ ’ asked Lilias. 

‘^Aurelia,” replied Cherry, quietly. have written 
to ask her here.” 

Aurelia Doyle !” blazed out Fan, irascibly. 

‘‘Yes; she is Philip’s favorite cousin. I have asked 
her because he wishes it, and I shall expect you all to 
treat her as his relative and my guest deserves.” 

Lilias pushed back an untouched plate; the patient 
pain of that beloved face was more than she could well 
bear. 


CHAPTER XXL 


EMBLEMS. 

** Perplext in faith, but pure in deed.’* 

In Memoriam, 

Well, they came, and my simple record draws to a 
close. 

They came, all but one ; Agnes Courtlandt almost 
sobbed in giving her brother's excuses to her hostess. 

‘‘ Cecil bade me say to you, Mrs. Hale, that he was 
unfit for society and would only be a clog to your gay 
party. I did not want to come,*’ ingenuously. ‘‘I know 
how Cecil needs me, but he commanded me to leave him, 
and I have never disobeyed him.” 

Aurelia was within hearing at the time, and waited in 
a fever of expectation for the answer of Mrs. Hale. 

My dear, I do not think I would be miserable on his 
account ; I am sure if he need you he will send for you.” 

That was all, and then the lady went to look after the 
comfort of her other guests, white and quiet and gentle 
as usual. 

Did she dream of the part Philip’s favorite cousin 
and her guest” had assigned herself for that summer’s 
campaign at Hampden Hill, — the interesting and fruitful 
role of spy upon her every action ? Aurelia’s old hatred 
of the girl was in full force against the woman. Cerise 
Hilton had inspired her with impotent jealousy among 
the halls of old Norbourne, had borne away the prizes 
for which she had striven there. Cerise Hale wore the 
honors at Hampden Hill that should have been her own, 

231 


232 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


held the place in Philip’s heart that she would have sold 
her own soul to have filled. 

She had treasured jealously, all these years, every 
haughty glance and scathing sarcasm of her rival, she 
meant to dole out scorn and sarcasm in return when the 
day came, — and it was coming apace ! 

Only she of all the world, save those two, knew of that 
brief, bitter story of Cerise Hale’s past. 

The scene in the Farronnade parlor had burned itself 
into her memory : it bore its own interpretation. There 
had been no mistaking the agony in the girl’s white, reso- 
lute face, the love and pleading in the despairing eyes of 
the man. She might have gone home and broken the 
match then. Philip would never have married a woman 
when he knew her heart belonged to another ; but she 
had waited with reason until all fear of her secret’s safety 
had faded from the mind of Philip’s wife, until secure in 
years of seeming love and faith, she had blindly trusted 
to the past to forever guard the knowledge of her sin from 
him whom she had wronged. Philip, who had passed her 
by for this proud, indurate woman, — this woman whose 
heart was dead, — should soon need her pity, if nothing 
more ! 

‘‘Tell me something of your mother,” asked Agnes 
Courtlandt of Cherry one evening when they were loung- 
ing in her own room. 

“ My own mamma? I should not know where to be- 
gin or how ; her qualities were not of the kind that bears 
description. She was inestimably precious to us all, and 
life has never looked the same since she left it.” 

“ I never knew my mother, but Cecil says I am like 
her. Forgive me, Mrs. Hale ” 

“ Never, if you persist in calling me that ; if we mean 


EMBLEMS. 


233 

to be particular friends we should be Agnes and Cherry 
to each other/' 

“Well, Cherry then; only that name does not suit 
you : you have no color. It was of Cecil I wanted to 
speak. He would not come because he feared he might 
be a trouble. I wonder are all invalids so sensitive? He 
would not have been a trouble." 

“I thought*! had made your brother understand that, 
Agnes." 

“But if you would only write and tell him so, — that 
is," blushing lest in her anxiety she might sacrifice her 
propriety, — “ if it would not be the least trouble to have 
him. I know just how lonely he is without me ; he 
would not know himself until I was gone just how much 
he needs me. I do everything for him," — tears choking 
the rapid utterance, — “he once said he did not think he 
could sleep if I were not on hand always to beat up his 
pillows and smooth his forehead." 

“Agnes, my child, I think you are disturbing yourself 
unnecessarily ' ' 

“Oh no, no! You cannot know all Ido; my heart 
aches when I am away from him, — he is so lonely, he 
has no one but me, — and — and he had a great trouble 
once that has never quite forsaken him 1 What if he 
should get to thinking about it, as he did not long ago, 
and he should have another of those dreadful hemor- 
rhages as he did then ! I am almost wild when I think 
of it." 

Cerise's heart gave a great, uneasy throb. How much 
did this fond child know of her brother's past ? It was 
not curiosity that prompted her to find out, but a keen 
fear and a feeling more closely allied to shame than any 
she had ever felt. 

“ A trouble, Agnes ?" 


22 


234 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


‘‘Yesj but he is so gentle and good that you would 
never guess he was troubled, would you? Well, it was 
years ago, and it seems sacrilege to breathe it, but I will 
tell you, perhaps it will warm your heart toward him ; 
you seem always so cold to my poor Cecil.*' 

Joujou, I am not cold to your brother; there is so 
little that I can ever say to him, nothing that I can do, 
but if I could see him well and strong again, I would be 
more grateful than you know. Do not betray his trust, 
perhaps it were not truly kind to do so even to me. Write 
to him and tell him to come, else, I see, I will be obliged 
to give you up." 

‘‘ And you will add a postscript ? It was I who invited 
him here before ; don't you remember, I said I could not 
come without him ?" 

‘‘ Well, yes, to please you, I will write a postscript." 

The girl jumped up delighted and slipped down to the 
library en neglige to write a hasty note, and Cerise laughed 
at her childish ardor, when she came back again rapidly 
with pen and ink for a compliance with her promise. 

So Cerise, with the eager, watching eyes looking over 
her shoulder, wrote : ‘‘ Colonel Courtlandt must not fail 
to come directly to Hampden Hill ; Agnes pines for her 
brother, and Mrs. Hale can assure her friend that his pres- 
ence is specially desired by the entire present household. 
As an invalid we cheerfully exempt him from duty on all 
occasions not consonant with his pleasure." 

Will that do?" she asked. 

‘‘Yes, except that it needs your signature." 

“ My dear, a formal note of that kind needs no signa- 
ture." 

“But he never saw your handwriting; please^ Mrs. 
Hale." 

“Very well," laughing; “but I depend upon you to 


EMBLEMS. 235 

explain my questionable rhetoric to your brother;*^ then 
she added, “ Cerise H. Hale.’^ 

It was a whim of pretty spoiled Agnes’s to which her 
friend and hostess submitted, never dreaming how dear it 
was to cost her. On just such minute circumstances do 
many disastrous events hinge. It was a whim of the Due 
d’Orleans that cost the Bourbons a throne, a whim of 
Marie Antoinette’s that cost her that fair fame which is 
ever so precious a possession to woman. 

Agnes went back to the library for an envelope. While 
she was addressing it several came in from the croquet- 
ground, among them Aurelia Doyle. She went over to 
where the girl was writing. 

“ You seem in haste. Miss Courtlandt ; is that a quietus 
to one of your many lovers?” 

“ I have no lovers,” answered Agnes, simply; it is a 
letter to my brother.” 

‘‘Do you have your writing done by proxy? that is 
Cherry’s name at the end of the sheet.” 

Aurelia had recognized the signature lying uppermost. 

Agnes Courtlandt flushed a little. She did not like this 
woman with her steely pitiless eyes. She resented her 
interference just now as impertinence. 

“Mrs. Hale added a postscript to my letter by my 
request. You may read it, if you care to do so. Miss 
Doyle. Cecil is over-sensitive. I wanted him to come 
here, and I feared that he might not upon my invitation 
only.” 

There was an irritable note in the girl’s voice, and the 
color burned steadily in her face. 

“ Forgive me,” interpolated Miss Doyle, in her richest, 
most insinuating tones. “I have been rude, I fear, but I 
will confess to a spice of curiosity when I saw Cherry’s 
name at the bottom of that page. You are too young to 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


236 

remember what would explain my seemingly unpardon- 
able presumption/* 

She left pretty Agnes with a surprised look on her face 
and a slight wonder as to what could have happened that 
she was too young to remember. 

conspiracy!** thought Aurelia, as she left the 
library and went slowly toward her own room at the end 
of the upper hall, — ‘‘ a conspiracy !** There was a glow of 
something akin to triumph in her heart. Here was a flaw 
in Philip*s idol. 

Aurelia regarded Cerise stealthily that evening; she 
was more quiet than usual, but attentive and unfailing in 
her duties as hostess. If the spy could have looked into 
her heart, she would have seen nothing there to reward 
her vigilance : no tumultuous, rioting thoughts of an 
old love, no intriguing plans, nothing but weariness and 
patience, and that sentence of the wise Imlac written as 
it were upon the portals : ‘‘ This, at least, is the present 
reward of virtuous conduct, that no unlucky consequence 
can oblige me to repent it.** 

Cherry,** said Lilias, on the evening of the next day, 
where they sat on the piazza looking idly over to the group 
playing croquet on the lawn, ‘‘ I believe Fanfarronnade 
is interested in Mr. Lindsay. Would it surprise you?** 

‘‘Yes; Fan is too volatile for the Dominie, just as 
Willie Craighton is too careless and laughter-loving for 
you.** 

Lilias*s face grew a distressful crimson, but she lifted 
it up bravely to meet her sister*s searching eyes. 

“But, Cherry, if he— oh. Cherry!** 

“If he love you? My little one, make your own 
choice, and I pray God it will be a happy one !** 

Dashing along the highway came a carriage, Philip*s 
coachman on the box. Agnes leaned from the parlor 


EMBLEMS. 


237 

window as it swept in at the gates, her fair face aflush 
with pleasure. 

“ Mrs. Hale, he has come !’* 

But the joyous smile faded when the coachman stopped 
in the drive to speak to his master and turned his horses’ 
heads stableward. Cherry saw the childish lips quiver as 
she withdrew from the window. Willie Craighton came 
lounging up to the piazza. 

‘‘I am croquetted beyond bounds; I have been wired 
on every ball; I have been booby three times in one 
game, and all because your blue eyes distracted me from 
my duty. Miss Lilias; won’t you come help me out in 
the next?” 

But the regard of his bold, bright eyes was over-tender, 

. and Lilias, grown suddenly pink-faced, remembered that 
it was her duty to go seek Agnes and console her, if pos- 
sible, for her disappointment. Cerise followed her with 
eyes half sad. 

^‘Willie! Willie! you have repaid me poorly for 
having you here.” 

But he interrupted her, and somehow the merry au- 
dacity of his words carried her back to that time of 
his life when he had tyrannized over her and she had 
yielded. 

“ ‘ Gather ye rose-buds while ye may I' 

That is the safest philosophy. Cherry?” Then seriously, 
‘‘My dear Mrs. Hale, I have not been denied much in 
my lifetime.” 

“But this is no common blessing.” 

“ I am sure of that, and yet I can only go about gaining 
it in the natural way. Do you believe I can make her 
happy ?’ ’ 

“ Don’t ask me, child I” And there was a sharp ring of 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


238 

emotion in the woman’s voice. Settle it between your- 
selves, only be sure you know that you are sufficient for 
each other before you determine upon any course. I 
would never have chosen you for our Lilias any more 
than I would have thought of her for you ; but I can trust 
her safely with you, provided you truly love each other.” 

Then Mr. Lindsay stepped from the library window, 
and Willie Craighton with puzzled eyes sat by in dis- 
satisfied quiet. 

You remember our conversation yesterday, Mr. Lind- 
say, about incomplete lives and the beautiful quotation 
from Longfellow with which you favored us, — won’t you 
repeat it?” 

“ ‘ Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seem to climb,’ ’* 


quoted Lindsay, gravely. 

“To me that figure conveys more adequately the idea 
of impotence than any I ever remember to have read.” 

“ It is like most of Longfellow’s comparisons, startling 
and inimitable. How many ‘ broken stairways’ there 
are in these lives we build for ourselves, or others build 
for us 1 What is the corner-stone of endurance, Mr. 
Lindsay ?” 

“ Love, I should say,” the lecturer replied, smiling with 
singular sweetness, “love to God and man; patience, 
meekness, — true love generates them both,* — and for the 
rest you remember the verse before that : 




‘ Let us do our work as well, 

Both the unseen and the seen, 

Make the house where God may dwell 
Beautiful, entire, and clean.’ ” 


“Mr. Lindsay^ 3^r.., Lindsay !” shouted voices from 
the croquet ground. 


EMBLEMS, 


239 


Cerise turned to Willie, when they were alone again, 
and the young man saw great tears lying in the sad eyes. 

That is what I wanted to say, and our friend has said 
it much better than I could ever have done. Do you 
understand 

Entirely, — and there is no reason to doubt that our 
lives may be ‘beautiful, entire and clean/ for we love 
each other. Cherry!’^ 

“ I believe it ; here^s my hand upon it, only remember 
‘ I never kiss and tell,’ and I shall expect the same from 
you.” 

The gesture and manner of speaking was indescribably 
winning. Willie Craighton bent and kissed the little hand 
he held. 

“ My good, kind Cherry ! you were always so much 
better to me than I deserve.” 

When Lilias left the piazza her cheeks were burning, 
and she went in the breakfast parlor to cool them before 
she should encounter any of the household ; but old Mrs. 
Hale was there superintending the tea-making, and chip- 
ping beef and tongue for the trays upon which Cherry 
was in the habit of having supper brought out into the 
wide, cool porches. 

“ Here, my dear,” she said at sight of Lilias, “sort 
these napkins, will you? Cherry don’t like them to get 
mixed, and she is right; I love a careful housewife.” 

“You leave Cherry nothing to do, Mrs. Hale,” said 
Lilias ; “ you spoil our Cherry.” 

“ Oh, but I have to coax her sometimes not to take it 
all out of my hands. It will be a sad day for me when I 
have nothing left to do, my dear.” 

And Lilias stood there sorting napkins and chatting 
with the motherly old soul, longing all the time with a 
restlessness that was new to her to get away with her own 


240 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


sweet and tumultuous thoughts. Suddenly jarring across 
them sounded the decisive intonations of Fan Farron- 
nade’s voice from the little latticed porch upon which the 
breakfast parlor opened. 

‘‘You are absolutely rancorous, Aurelia,’* she was say- 
ing, and Lilias smiled to think how soon Fan had disre- 
garded Cherry’s expressed injunction ; “ but most women 
of our world when on the confines of their ete de St. 
Martin are that. There are a few very rare exceptions !” 

“ How prone you are to idioms. Fan !” sneered Aurelia. 
“It is bad taste, to say the least of it.” 

Fan laughed with moqueur scornfulness. 

“ And that is the very least you would say of it. Miss 
Doyle, had you not failed to translate my idiom, as you 
are pleased to term it, though I might enlighten you on 
that point if I cared to do so. What I mean to say is 
this : for some reason or other — and I promise you that 
it is not so impenetrable as you may imagine — you seem 
to bear a never-ending grudge to our amiable hostess. 
What you couldn’t accomplish at Nahant you try here, 
with perhaps less success than there, since here all who 
know her love and honor her, and her daily walk, its 
purity and faithfulness, are point-blank refutations to your 
ingenious scandal.” 

“ Daily walk indeed!” exclaimed Miss Doyle, in un- 
guarded tones of indignation, — “there is precious little 
of her daily walk we would any of us have seen had Court- 
landt stayed on the other side of the water. It is a ruse 
fi'om beginning to end to draw him here. I tell you I 
speak advisedly, for I saw her signature at the bottom of 
a letter Agnes Courtlandt was addressing to her brother, 
and when I taxed the girl with it she unblushingly avowed 
that Mrs. Hale had added a postscript inviting him to 
make one of the party at Hampden.” 


EMBLEMS. 


241 


‘^And has not Mrs. Hale a right to invite her own 
guests?” asked Fanfarronnade, hotly. ‘‘You are the 
meanest-spirited woman I ever knew, Aurelia Doyle ; you, 
a guest honored and welcomed by Cherry, use every means 
in your power to blacken her fair name with your - foul, 
false aspersions. I hate you, — I want you to know that.” 

“I seeking to do Cherry an injury! Are you mad, 
Fanfarronnade? I have mentioned to you what I would 
not have you repeat, — that is all. Years ago, in that winter 
when she visited you, I stumbled upon her in your father’s 
library with Courtlandt’s arms about her, and her face 
wore the look of a corpse. I drew my own conclusions, 
but I was secret as the grave. Now, because I say that if 
Philip can walk blindfolded much longer it is because he 
has lost the use of his eyes, you fly out in my face and 
accuse me of making ‘ foul, false aspersions.’ Your god- 
dess is a very ordinary woman after all !” 

“Ma’am?” 

Lilias’s interrogation was so shrill, that old Mrs. Hale 
started in surprise. 

“ My dear, I can hear if you speak lower than that. 
I am a little deaf, but you need not raise your voice above 
the usual when you stand so close to me as you do now. 
I did not call, my dear.” 

“Then it must have been some one, — excuse me, 
please.” 

Walking with dazed, bewildered footsteps down the hall, 
Lilias met Agnes ; her face was white except where swollen 
red rings bound her eyes. Neither sought to intercept 
the other, but Lilias stood for a moment looking after the 
girl as she mounted the staircase wearily. 

“ Little one, looking pale I” laughed Philip, as he came 
in through the rear hall-door. He had been out all day, 
and his game-coat was bloody in spots._ 

L 21 


242 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


‘‘Do you still hear any talk of that mad project, — a 
masquerade in the woods he asked. “The dews are 
dank these nights, and Cherry is far from well.^* 

Lilias looked at him with mute anguish. “ What if these 
poisoned rumors should reach him 

Her proud, noble Cherry stoop to intrigue ! She could 
as well believe that an angel would soil its innocence as 
that Cherry would yield one jot of her high, firm princi- 
ple. That was “foul, false,’* as Fanfarronnade had 
averred. 

“ Why, Lil ! what is the matter? You look a fit sub- 
ject for apoplexy. Does your head ache?” 

“No;” but despite the denial of her answer, he felt 
that something was wrong. 

“It is nothing that you need know,” she said, with an 
effort. “ I am a goose to stand here and let you read my 
face so plainly. Tea is ready, — let me go make myself 
presentable, and you do likewise.” 

When Philip went out later to where the servants were 
handing the trays and his guests were chatting in easy 
couples, he looked first at Cherry for a solution of Lilias’s 
strange behavior. But Cherry was leaning back in her 
light summer apparel, sipping her tea and talking with 
Mr. Lindsay, carelessly as usual ; he saw no cloud upon 
her brow. He went up to her and folded the fleecy 
shawl that lay on the back of her chair carefully about 
her. 

“Your cough troubled you last night,” he said, ten- 
derly. “ Do you think it is prudent for you to live in 
the open air as you do ? and a shower has made it damp 
this evening.” He was deferential and solicitous, as 
though he had been her lover instead of her ten-years’ 
husband. 

She smiled gratefully up into his face. 


EMBLEMS, 


243 

Thanks! No, *tis the life of me. What shall I do 
when the winter comes? Let me enjoy it now.” 

What mocking fate put those plaintive words into her 
mouth? She remembered them after with a deathful 
sinking of the heart. 

‘‘What a chevalier your husband is 1” said Mr. Lind- 
say, when Philip left her side and they had resumed the 
slow sipping of their tea. “ You made a wise choice, 
Mrs. Hale; and your life has doubtless been a fruitful 
one.” 

Cerise made no reply; she was looking up at the early 
stars coming out one by one in the illimitable stretch of 
blue above her head. They looked so near together, and 
yet how far apart they were. 

“ So here below are we gauged by our fellows; so we 
hear murmuring envy of our body’s ease,” she thought. 
“ So close, they say, so close to peace and happiness ! 
Oh, God, thou knowest how far from these we are ! thou 
knowest 1” 

“ My life has not been fruitful,” she said, at last, with 
bowed head and folded hands. “ I tried to make it so, 
but I fear I failed. I grew tired. Nature has such moods, 
has she not,” with a wistful smile, “ when she pauses from 
toil to gather strength, — ‘when Earth goes to sleep in 
snow-wreaths dim’ ?” 

“I thought so once !” said the lecturer, gravely. “I 
remember years ago, when I stood at the window of my 
lodging-room and looked out over a barren, bushy wold 
with a multitude of tiny, chirruping birds darting here 
and there, making the only motion in the dull wide land- 
scape. The very air was stirless, — a brooding patience 
seemed to have settled on the world. But / was not 
patient, my whole soul was in warfare against the life I 
lived, — the life of toil and seemingly fruitless endeavor. 


244 


FOR HONOR'S SANE, 


I thought to myself, even Cybele, industrious mother, 
grows tired, and stops to rest ; but for me there is no- 
thing but work, until the tired brain whirls and the heart 
grows sick with longing. But as I stood there the army 
of hopping birds flew away, the calm, cold air was filled 
with shadowy flakes ; they drifted down upon the garden- 
paths impartially, until each bushy spike took the image 
of a phantom ship, locked in Arctic gelidness or anchored 
tranquilly. The old garden was a temple fit for gods ; 
the world a limitless crystal sea, and I, standing there 
entranced, found out my rash mistake. Cybele had been 
taking no lethargic repose, but with soft hand and step 
she was but wooing her fierce winds and skies to tender 
silence lest some harsh afrite should greet the darling 
of her winter mood — the snow, that taught me so wise a 
lesson. Ah ! I rested in the snowy solitude, and since, I 
have learned that Nature, our great mother, never wearies 
of her work.’* 

‘‘You rested,” she said, softly. “Ah, how sweet it 
must be to rest entirely and fully, — free of every care for 
the next day !” 

“ Do you remember when you sang to me at your 
father’s home in Maryland, and what? You say your 
life has not been fruitful ; believe me, it has not been 
fruitless, for from that night I date my success, — back 
to you and your sweet girlish encouragement I trace the 
path that led me to what I am. You encouraged me, 
you seemed to see originality in my remarks, you gave 
me my first taste of self-appreciation, and when you sang 
of the ‘ mighty footsteps that echo down the corridors 
of time,’ it sounded like a bugle-blast to me.” 

Was this the grave, reticent Mr. Lindsay, who had stum- 
bled into her mother’s knitting that night in the long ago? 
Was this the radiant, gay-voiced girl who had sung her 


EMBLEMS. 


245 


bonny love-songs, and tolerated his awkward mishaps, 
who had ‘‘ reached down to the depths*^ of his soul with 
her womanly sympathy, — this white-faced, quivering-lipped 
woman making no effort to restrain the tears that fell down 
her cheeks ? They were mutually surprised at one another. 
She leaned over to him from her chair ; a flickering sun- 
set reflection cast its warmth upon her face. 

‘‘And / did you that good? Then, thank God! my 
life has not been wasted ; a few are a little better, a little 
happier for my having lived !’* 

There was deep humility in her voice. Mr. Lindsay 
was not slow to read it, but he was at a loss to explain the 
origin of such emotion. 

Philip came over to them again. 

“Lindsay, excuse me, I am not usually such an inter- 
loper as I have proven myself to-night, but. Cherry, there 
are two gentlemen at the gates, — Courtlandt and a 
stranger. ’ ’ 

There was a look of startled terror in Cherry’s averted 
eyes ; only Aurelia observed it, and she directed a glance 
upon Philip so cunningly compounded of pity and con- 
tempt that Philip, noticing it, wondered what it meant. 
The stranger proved to be Jock. 

Philip felt a little the pride of his position ; he knew 
that both of those men had been lovers of his wife. 

Agnes, forgetful of conventionalities, threw herself into 
her brother’s arms with endearing caresses, but Fan red- 
dened violently when she recognized Jock, and welcomed 
him with an entire lack of her usual vivacity. 

Cherry’s manner was inimitable. Jock did not find 
the brilliant, piquante girl of his old dreams, though he 
acknowledged to himself that this pale, serene woman 
with the perfect poise of the world in carriage and tone 
was more fascinating than any other he had ever met. 

21 * 


246 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


He could not tell in what unless in her rich voice, the 
patient sweetness of her smile, or the changeful expres- 
sions in the large dark eyes, less clear than in those pas- 
sionate days of her early youth, when one seemed to read 
the emotions of her happy heart therefrom. 

Later in the evening Fan came over to his side. 

What brought you here, Jock 

Well, really, that is cool; I was invited for the mas- 
querade, — and then I wanted to see you.^* 

Fan’s face kindled ; Jock was still Jock the incom- 
parable to her. 

And to see if your friend had changed.” 

‘‘Well?” 

‘ ‘ I would have known her ; but it is a new face after all. ” 

“She is a fortunate woman, with friends and position, 
and a husband that idolizes her.” 

Jock smiled mournfully. 

“ Have you not lived long enough to discern that the 
measure of one’s happiness is not always filled by such 
considerations.” 

“ Nonsense !” said Fan, unsteadily. “ There is a little 
darling,” designating Agnes Courtlandt, “ all eyes and 
heart ; the very woman for you, Jock.” 

“ Introduce me,” said Jock, good-naturedly, more to 
please Fan than any interest that quiet little figure behind 
Colonel Courtlandt’s chair had awakened in him. 

“ But, remember. Fan, I never mean to ‘ brush my coat 
o’ mornings.’ I have hung it up for good.” 

Fan’s eyes were misty as she took her brother’s arm to 
conduct him to Miss Courtlandt. There was a good deal 
of badinage and laughter that night ; it seemed to Cerise 
that they had never been so gay before. They played 
games, drank healths, gave comic toasts when refresh- 
ments came in, and then as a climax and suitable ending 


EMBLEMS. 


247 


of the evening Cherry was petitioned to sing. In vain 
she protested, as was most unusual with her, they were 
clamorous for a song ; so with a red spot in each white 
cheek Cerise, who had been in a semi-somnolent state all 
the evening, went over to the piano. 

‘‘ Will you kindly sing * The Day is Done* ?’* asked Mr. 
Lindsay, looking up from earnest conversation with Fan. 
‘‘A long time ago you sang it for me, and I remember 
then you said that you should never enjoy it unless some 
day you should grow into a disappointed, world-weary 
woman.** 

Cherry smiled in a ghastly way : You must excuse 
me, I have not learned to care for that yet.** 

Won*t you sing ‘Auld Robin Gray,* Mrs. Hale?** 
asked Agnes, timidly. Cecil is so fond of it, and he 
has only me to sing it for him.** 

“ Joujou, you think too much of my preferences; you 
are selfish for your brother. Mrs. Hale, sing your own 
favorite.** 

‘‘ I will sing ‘ Auld Robin Gray,* Agnes, though it has 
been years since I have attempted it.** 

Her fingers trembled a little at first, but she launched 
into the old song bravely. There was utter silence — that 
most flattering of all testimonials — when her sweet, full 
voice broke into the recitative : 

“ ‘ When the sheep are in the fauld 
And a’ the kye at hame, 

And all the weary warld asleep is gone, 

The waes o’ my heart fall in showers frae my ee, 

While my gude man sleeps sound by me.’ ” 

Her voice gained in strength and sweetness, and it was 
not until she finished that she took up the burden of her 
own regret and anguish : 

“ Wherefore was I spared to cry, Wae is me I” 


248 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


They thanked her vociferously, begging for more ; and 
to satisfy them she gave, with a few masterly chords by 
way of prelude, Tennyson’s ‘‘Break, break, break.” 

“ But the tender touch of a vanished hand 
Can never come back to me, 

Can never come back to me.” 


And then with no premonition of weakness, just as her 
voice died on the last lingering minor note, the outraged 
nature gave way, the cold fingers slipped from the key- 
board, and there was a rush toward her stool, for she had 
fallen on the rich bloom of the carpet. 

* * * * :|c :|c :jc 

“ Cecil, brother !” 

Colonel Courtlandt walking to and fro through his 
dimly-lit chamber, paused at the sound of that low, be- 
seeching voice. He opened the door for Agnes to enter. 

“ Child, what do you want ? You should be asleep ; it 
is past the midnight.” 

“ And ytt you are awake,” replied the girl, sadly, clos- 
ing the door behind her and coming close to his side. 
“Oh, Cecil! I begged you to come here; but how 
could I know? Cecil, brother, let us go home.” 

The revelation in the child’s face startled him. For 
an instant he was angered beyond his wont. Who had 
been telling his sister stories of his past? Who knew 
of that one sealed epoch of his life save she who had 
shared it, — she, who until to-night he had believed was 
happy in forgetfulness and the security of a good man’s 
name and love ? 

“I was so ignorant,” sobbed Agnes, clinging to his 
arm, “else how could I have wounded you so? I heard 
it all to-day, — how you had loved her years ago, — and, 
do you know what her cousin says? — that woman with 


EMBLEMS. 


249 

eyes like steel, — she says that all this gayety and hospi- 
tality is but to secure your presence here.” 

The girl’s face was hot with indignant color. Cecil 
Courtlandt thrust the clinging hands from his arm, his 
face livid as a dead man’s. 

She dared say that of her ! Oh, God ! the purest 
woman ! the bravest ” 

His voice broke down in a sob. Agnes flung her arms 
around him. 

‘‘ Don’t, Cecil, oh, please I it will break my heart. Do 
you think I believed her ? I knew it was not true, for 
Mrs. Hale would never have written that invitation to you 
but that I begged he^ because I knew you were lonely 
and needed me. I taxed her with coldness to you, and 
her answer was so mournful. ‘ Joujou,’ she said, ‘I am 
not cold to your brother ; there is so little that I can 
ever say to him, nothing that I can do, but if I could 
see him well and strong again, I would be more grateful 
than you know.’ It is all my fault !” cried Agnes, in 
miserable self-accusation. ‘‘ If I had been willing and 
satisfied to stay with you, this would never have hap- 
pened.” 

Her brother put away from him again those timid, 
clinging hands, and going over to a darker corner of the 
room, sat with bowed head in silence for what seemed a 
long time to Agnes, waiting. 

At last he looked up, beckoning her to his side and 
putting an arm around her weakly, letting his head fall on 
her shoulder, — she, the while, passing her fingers lovingly 
through his thick, closely-cut hair. 

‘‘ Agnes, it is true, in part, what you heard ; I did love 
her years ago, when she was a young girl on a visit to her 
friend in New York, though God knows I renounced her 
then, relinquished her to any happiness the future might 

L* 


250 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


hold for her. You did not believe what that woman, Miss 
Doyle, said of her. You could not, — her honor is too 
true and tried a thing for us to doubt it, — she wrecked 
her happiness upon it years ago. You are right, we will 
go home. Do not blame yourself, my darling; I had 
rather you had never known the secret of my past, but as 
it is you will see how worthily I loved. She is the truest 
and bravest woman that God ever made. You will be the 
better for having known her. We will go home to-mor- 
row. Do not let it trouble you, Joujou ; there are rough 
paths as well as smooth ones in the road leading us home. 
I am content that it should be so.** 

Then he gently led her to the door, and, after kissing 
her tenderly, closed it upon her. 

Early, while yet the guests at Hampden Hill were sleep- 
ing in their darkened chambers, Cecil Courtlandt, white 
and spent with the ravages of a hardly-fought struggle on 
his face, came out of his room and went down into the 
cool, green-hued library. 

In an easy-chair near the open window he sat and waited 
patiently, with the fresh breeze of the morning fanning 
his forehead and the rich scent of the late roses floating 
balmily about him. Do we reckon age by the added 
wrinkle, the insidious crow*s-foot, the silver threads that 
come obtruding among the golden and the brown? I 
think not always. 

From that hour Cecil Courtlandt felt the barrenness of 
age creeping upon him,— not the indolent autumn season 
of a gracious summer life, but the bleak cold winter of 
weary, helpless age, that longs for rest and a grave. His 
patient waiting was rewarded at last. 

Mrs. Hale opened the door leading in from the gardens, 
and entered with her matutinal offering to the marble gods 


EMBLEMS. 


251 


and graces ranged here and there between her book* cases. 
She emptied her floral burden on a table in the centre 
of the room, bowing, with a sweet, serious smile upon her 
lips, when she saw the occupant of the easy-chair near the 
window. She went about her work deftly, filling the urn 
of a Bacchante with bunches of early purple-glossed grapes 
and whitish-green leaves, and binding a fresh chaplet of 
laurel around the brows of her marble Milton and Shak- 
speare, — a bouquet here, a handful of grasses there, until 
the cool, green-hued room glowed a very bower of color 
and fragrance, then she drew a chair to the table and be- 
gan to arrange the odds and ends for some vases she had 
taken from the mantel. 

Cecil Courtlandt arose from his chair and went over to 
where she stood, and she looking up into his face met 
again that expression of yearning solicitude that had 
surprised her in the lecture-room. 

‘‘I have been waiting for you,^* he said, in the slow, 
musical voice that was like no other’s in the world. ‘‘ I 
wanted to ask you to forgive me the infliction of my 
presence ; I had no thought but to please my sister. 
We are going after breakfast ; I thought it best to seek 
you privately first, so that I might give you my true 
reason for leaving. Your cousin has seen fit to revive 
that old story of your youth, and handles it in a way de- 
rogatory to your honor as a wife and a woman. How she 
ever gained any knowledge of what I supposed known 
only to you and to me I cannot even conjecture ; but 
I may be making misery for you by remaining here, so 
I go.” 

Cerise grew white as the convolvuli she held. ‘‘ Making 
misery for me 1” she murmured, smiling in dreary. scorn 
at the bare idea of adding to a measure already overflow- 
ing. Then she laid down the flowers and arose, pushing 


252 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


her chair back from the table and leaning heavily on the 
back of it. 

Colonel, I have deaf ears to Miss Doyle’s insinua- 
tions; they have pursued me closely since we were 
school-girls together. Every one understands the value 
of them, except perhaps my husband, and she would 
not dare go to him with tales of me. Stay if you are 
amused ; none of those considerations need drive you 
away. ’ ’ 

But I must go. And before I leave may I ask you : 
Do you believe firmly as of yore in your old theory that 
‘all life needs for life is possible to will’ ? Or have you, 
like the astronomer in Rasselas, purchased knowledge at 
the expense of all the common comforts of life? Do 
not be offended. I have never known a life built on 
such a foundation to endure in happiness or strength. 
Tell me, — I ask for information ; as a philosopher I am 
interested to know.” 

Cerise sat down, and drawing a vase near her, pulled 
from its centre a Noisette rose ; to her death she remem- 
bered how languidly a little green worm crept out of its 
heart into her hand. 

“I do not know if you are mocking me,” she said, 
“ but I will admit that my experience has refuted most of 
my old theories.” Then, after a pause, her voice falling 
almost to a whisper, a slow, red flush on her cheek, 
“ No matter what / would have made of my life had 
that been possible, it has been made for me, and I must 
look to it that the hearts in my keeping do not fail for 
lack of tendance. One recklessly destroys one’s chances 
for happiness through false pride or heartlessness, an- 
other has them taken out of her hands, sees them slip 
from her grasp through no fault of her own. If the one 
suffer we feel no pity, we say she deserves that ; but of 


EMBLEMS. 


253 


the other/* — great passionate tears filled her eyes look- 
ing upward appealingly to his, — ‘‘you will not say ‘she 
deserves it,* — you cannot. No, I have not gained knowl- 
edge at the expense of all the common comforts of life, 
but, like your astronomer, ‘I have suffered much,* though 
not always in vain, I believe.** 

Cecil Courtlandt felt his lips tremble like a woman*s ; 
there was something divine in the humble patience of 
that white, sad face, with tears flooding the troubled eyes. 

“It has been a different life from what I would have 
made it ; but I do not think it has all been in vain, — I 
trust not. Carlyle says, ‘ It is well worth living to 
have made one nook a little greener, fruitfuller, more 
blessed.* ** 

He picked up a little blue-bound Tennyson lying near, 
opened it, and, rapidly marking with a pencil a passage, 
handed it to her. She knew that he could not trust his 
voice, and her eyes flooded again. 

“You should have that written above your grave when 
you die,** he said, huskily. 

She made out to read through blinding mists 

“ Oh, true in word and tried in deed !” 

with an asterisk above the period, and on the lower 
margin he had written, “ Siste viator!*’ — in imitation 
of the old Roman style of epitaph. 

She closed it without a word, bowing her head over the 
book with a sob of deepest emotion. He laid his hand 
on her hair for one instant, the beautiful russet-tinted 
hair that she still wore in its classic, Grecian coils. 

“ God bless you for the truest and bravest woman in 
his whole wide world ! Some day, perhaps, we will each 
see wherein the other has been mistaken, some day ; but 
mistakes will not trouble us then, Cerise.** 


22 


254 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


Again she pushed her chair back and arose, but the 
tears were too thick for any smiles to come between. He 
went back to his seat by the window, and she busied her- 
self a few moments longer over the flowers on the table, 
then turned to go. But at the door she paused, her hand 
upon the knob. 

“ There is one request I would like to make, colonel.*’ 

He bowed. 

“It is that you will stay until after the masquerade to- 
morrow night. Miss Doyle might find a more credulous 
market for her wares if you left so suddenly ; she might 
put that with my indisposition of last night, and concoct 
a fine romance out of it all.” 

She tried to speak lightly, but the color was warm on 
her face and she felt the shame of her position keenly. 

“If it will serve you I will stay, but it is under pro- 
test. I have lived my life, I have done with gayety ; 
what I want now is rest and seclusion.” 

Then she left him to the aching monotony of his own 
thoughts. On the table lay a small button-hole bouquet ; 
doubtless she had meant it for him. He took it up ten- 
derly, his face lighting with strong emotion when he saw the 
flowers it numbered. “ How like her !” he murmured, his 
wide, dreamy eyes flooded with the old delirious sweet- 
ness. On a background of Lebanon cedar were arranged 
some tiny spears of asphodel, a scarlet geranium, a Helenia 
blossom, and a snowy-white Michaelmas daisy. 

“Here I have her incorruptible soul,” he murmured, 
“ here her regret, which will follow me to my grave ; the 
geranium means consolation, this Helenia bloom is tears, 
and the Michaelmas daisy tells me her farewell in its 
sweet flower language.” 

Strange how the old pastime of his boyhood was re- 
vived in this late season of intolerable suffering and 


EMBLEMS, 


255 


anguish ! He had known the emblem of every flower in 
his youth, and he had never sent a bouquet to a lady 
without an eye to the language of the odorous gift, but 
he had not remembered them for years. It could not be 
that she had grouped them carelessly so. He did not 
choose to think it. Reverently he pinned the cluster in 
his coat. Cerise noted that he wore them at dinner, 
and she answered the question that he put to her with an 
acquiescent smile. 

“Was she fond of arranging vases emblematically, — 
laurels and bays for the library, roses for the drawing- 
rooms 

All at table heard the question, and some observed 
the quiet smile of their hostess in reply. 

Aurelia Doyle, with a basilisk glitter in her blue eyes, 
asked, shrilly, — 

“ What would you cut for gravestones, Cherry ? He- 
lenias and daisies ?” 

Lilias looked up in a surprised sort of way. 

Philip laughed : “ What a fancy, Aurelia ! Courtlandt, 
I see you are wearing Helen ias and daisies, and there is 
nothing of the gravestone about you.’’ 

“ Tears, and farewell !” cried Aurelia ; but she seemed 
to be having all the fun to herself, for no one smiled, and 
all, with a few exceptions, looked mystified. 

“ Tears and farewells are not for the grave. Miss 
Doyle,” he said, in his slow, sweet tones. “Tears are 
for the living, farewells for the dying ; but for the grave 
make wreaths of immortelles and evergreens, — emblems 
of peace and rest should hang on the gravestone.” 

Lilias drew her breath with a sharp, quick pang ; for 
dropping down her sister’s face were tears, and there were 
none at the long, well-filled table who had not noticed that 
strange emotion of their usually serene, high-bred hostess. 


256 


FOR HONORS SAKE, 


Cherry ! Cherry!*' cried her sister, when the last 
guest had vacated the dining-room and they were left 
alone. ‘‘What did you mean, — what will they all 
think?" 

“I cannot help it, Lil. They were ‘tears for the liv- 
ing,* — for myself, — his voice made me weep. I cannot 
always swallow my tears. I have done it for many years, 
child, but it is killing me almost. See !** 

She held up her arm and the sleeve fell back. 

Lilias pulled the sleeve down hastily. 

“ Poor Cherry ! you are pale and thin, and you are so 
nervous that you cannot always control yourself. Only 
it seems odd in you, who have ever been so strong and 
self-contained.** 

“And J. am strong, — stronger than any of you,** she 
said, with a hysterical laugh; “only to-day I could not 
keep back my tears, — ‘tears for the living.* *’ 

And yet, poor thing, she was not so strong as she thought, 
for a headache chained her to her bed that evening and 
all of the next day, and with the headache a consuming 
fever that filled her brain with wild vagaries. Philip 
heard her murmuring in her troubled sleep, — 

“ ‘ Oh, true in word and tried in deed !' ” 

And unto Cecil Courtlandt the flowers ministered all 
the day long, reminding him with their faint perfume of 
those celestial gardens 


Where never a rose of the roses die.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 


INTO PORT. 

“ For the ocean of suffering hems us round, and we never are wholly 
glad, 

And the songs that we sing and the tales that we tell are truest for 
being sad.” 

Barton Grey. 

The sun was sinking behind the cove of trees in the 
wood, hollowed out as it was like a great green cup, — 
‘‘burnt off,’^ Lilias had said, by the fiery orb, and bearing 
aloft flaming pennons of wild martial colors long after 
the horizon around had subsided into a dull violet line. 
There were picturesque couples constantly emerging from 
the belt of shadows behind the house, — ladies flushed and 
laughing with wide hats swinging on their arms, and gen- 
tlemen nonchalant and polite, bearing little baskets of 
cotton twine and scissors and huge bunches of arbor-vitae 
and ivy. The objective-point seemed to be the front 
piazza, for in a little while the couples submerged into 
the group, and queries, exclamations, and suggestions be- 
came general. There was a rush at Cerise when she made 
her appearance in the hall-door. Fanfarronnade stood 
apart from the rest, her blue eyes abstracted, her glib tongue 
silent amid the hubbub of voices. 

“ Cherry ! you able to be down. I am glad indeed !” 
cried Phil, springing up the steps two at a time until he 
gained her side. “You should see your pavilion, — it is 
fairy-like; you. would never know it, I am sure.^^ 

“Sh — 00 ! you wild ducks!” he cried, turning to the 
22* 257 


FOR HONORIS SAFE. 


258 

chattering group of ladies. What a quacking you do 
keep up ! You’ll have Cherry in bed again. Olf to dress 
now, and for the love of humanity don’t stay to primp, 
for I am starved for my dinner.” 

Whereupon the ladies, their numbers swelled by a fresh 
invoice from the city, filed past him with saucy squibs 
of repartee, and ran in little squads up the wide stair- 
case* 

“ How pale you are, my darling !” said Philip, when 
they were left alone on the porch. “ I wish you had 
given up this scheme of a fete in the woods ; no good 
will come of it, I fear. You will not be able to stand 
the fatigue and excitement. You are scarcely so well of 
late. Cherry.” 

‘‘ No, I am not as well as usual ; if I could I would 
give it up, but it has gone too far; they would all be dis- 
appointed ; and if I give out, you can supply all defi- 
ciencies, Philip.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t know. I am not much of a hand at 
that sort of thing.” Then he left her to change his coat 
for dinner. 

The west was molten gold now, violet, orange-crested 
clouds floated above the undulating line of woodland. A 
warm glow was cast on Cherry’s stainless face, some 
happy thought brought an alien brightness to her eyes, 
a smile of unusual freedom to her lips. Colonel Court- 
landt and Jock Farronnade, walking arm in arm up one 
of the avenue paths, both likened her to some image, 
unknown to the other; to Courtlandt she was the embodi- 
ment of the Past, — the Past at its brightest, with just 
enough of faintness in attitude and color to sustain the 
illusion ; to Jock she was Niobe with none of Niobe’s 
coldness, — Niobe before she was turned to stone, sad 
and weary-eyed, but with human sympathies and the 


INTO PORT. 


259 


tender, musical voice of the sole woman in the world 
he had ever loved. They raised their hats to her as they 
approached, with courteous inquiries as to her health, 
then they stood silent for awhile, looking over the land- 
scape that spread out like a panorama in the changeful 
sunset light. 

‘‘ Hampden Hill is in a valley, .Mrs. Hale,*’ Jock Far- 
ronnade said ; and there is not even a hill around.” 

‘‘ No,” said Cherry, politely, though her mind seemed 
far-off still j ‘‘it was a caprice of somebody’s, for which 
there is no accounting.” 

Another pause, Jock gazing speculatively beyond trees 
and bordered terraces ; Cherry leaning on the railing, 
the soft pink flushes enveloping her in a tender light. 

“ Have you ever seen Miss Muloch’s ‘ Quiet Thought 
after Sunset’?” It was Colonel Courtlandt who spoke. 
Cherry did not answer. 

“I have read it,” said Jock; “not long ago; in a 
scrap-book of Fan’s I found it, and I have not forgotten 
it. See, we have ‘ the bright shut gate’ out there in 
that glowing background of golden sky.” 

“ ‘ The bright shut gate that deadens despair to calm,’ ” 
quoted Courtlandt. “ I never liked that figure ; there is 
no calm for despair.” 

“ Do you think not?” asked Jock. “ I think one can 
scarcely despair for long. Apathy follows ” 

But Courtlandt interrupted him : 

“ Apathy is but another phase of despair. Which is 
preferable, think you, the numbness of the soul that fol- 
lows the intense shock of mental anguish or actual de- 
spair ?” 

“Should you ask?” answered honest Jock. “The 
numbness by all means.” 

“ One must have suffered greatly to believe that. No 


26 o 


FOR HONOR'S SANE, 


numbness for me, rather the keen, fierce pain of mental 
anguish than the apathy that passes current for happiness 
among the many.** 

The sunset flushes had died from Cherry*s face, a few 
roseate reflections flickered over her white skirts. She 
walked back into the shadow. 

am not so brave,** cried Jock. ‘‘I have not the 
strength to choose suffering for memory*s sake. Colonel, 
I think sometimes that memory is the gift above all others 
most cursed by man. If one could forget all the misfor- 
tunes and troubles of the past he could bravely meet the 
mishaps of the future ; but with the old trials burdening his 
shoulders,** with an outward motion of the arms, “where 
has he room or strength for new ones ? Tithon when he 
begged for immortality did not ask for eternal youth, 
and so the memory of his early days, when he was strong 
and buoyant and free, weighed more heavily upon him 
than his increasing infirmities.** 

“ I think, Mr. Jock,** said Cherry, coming forward, her 
voice sounding fuller and sweeter than it had ever done 
before to either of them, — “I think these trials, be they 
past or present, make the very discipline that our souls 
need. I am not always so strong as to see this, but, ex- 
cept in my weak moments, I am thankful that I have had 
some hard, deep troubles to overcome. There is no 
credit in sailing over calm waters in a seaworthy vessel 
into a safe harbor ; but when the waters are rough and 
the boat has sprung a leak, then it is something to sail 
into port with not a soul of all the crew lost!** Her 
face was radiant, her eyes wet. 

“ Whtn you get into port you should be proud to show 
you log-book,** Colonel Courtlandt said, and Jock looked 
in surprise one to the other. 

“ No,** said Cherry; “ my log-book will show a poor 


INTO PORT. 


261 


record, but’* — with an earnest smile, turning to leave 
them — ‘‘ when we all get into port, you, Mr. Jock, and 
all of us,” tremulously, ‘‘we will know how the trials 
have worked us good.” 

In the hall she met Agnes Courtlandt, as usual in quest 
of her invalid. 

“What has Joujou against me?” asked Mrs. Hale, 
holding out her hand, with a smile. “ She has not been 
to my room all day.” 

“ I have nothing against you, dear Mrs. Hale. I 
believe,” falteringly, “that I love you better every 
hour, — you are so gentle and uncomplaining, and you 
suffer so.” 

“ Ah, Joujou, dear little one, I am not gentle nor un- 
complaining, though I do wonder now, in this sudden 
strength that has come to me, why we ever allow our- 
selves to be cast down and disquieted, remembering the 
end of it all. Fan has been reading aloud ‘ Richard’s 
beginning the world,’ from ‘ Bleak House,’ and, as her 
room door opens into mine, I heard her, and it has 
helped me so very, very much. I believe if it had not 
been for that I would have stayed up-stairs and nursed 
my headache selfishly.” 

Then the gayly-dressed ladies came down the staircase, 
and they all went fluttering out to supper. In the draw- 
ing-room, after tea, Agnes kept close to her brother ; be- 
sides there were only Philip and his wife, Mr. Lindsay, 
and Miss Doyle, smelling salts for the headache, in the 
cool, quiet apartment. Outside, the guests were prome- 
nading along the piazza and through the avenue’s inter- 
secting paths. Cerise smiled warmly at Lilias forsaking 
her lover’s arm and looking in with loving solicitude for 
her comfort. Once Fan Farronnade darted her sunny 
head through the lace curtains, but seeing Mr. Lindsay 


262 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


in such close proximity to the window, unceremoniously 
darted back. 

‘^Fan Farronnade acts queerly this evening,*^ observed 
Cherry to her husband ; there is something behind her 
odd behavior.’* 

Courtlandt wondered why Lindsay stopped in the 
middle of a statement and stammered awkwardly as any 
school-boy. 

‘‘Aurelia, is our talk too much for you?” asked Cherry 
of the silent lounger in the fauteuil. 

“Thanks,” responded Miss Doyle, indifferently. “ I 
believe I do not hear you.” 

A wave of color drifted over Mrs. Hale’s white face ; 
the chill insolence of the woman’s tones stirred her into 
something like anger. Agnes Courtlandt came over to 
her side, and stood there timidly. Cerise felt grateful 
for the tenderness in the sweet, young face. 

“K?// are sick, but nobody seems to mind,” Agnes 
said, softly. “You are not strong enough to-night for 
the demands we all make upon you, — will you not let me 
go with you to your room? You look pale and tired.” 

“ Oh, no ! If I should wait for strength, my dear, the 
demands would be few that I would meet. The body 
must be schooled to submission, else how can it render 
all that life requires of it?” 

The voice was playful, but underlying shadows in the 
dark eyes made the words serious. 

“The body ! And does the heart fail to wear the yoke 
as well ? You make yourself out the veriest eye-servant, 
Cerise.” This from the fauteuil, in tones only removed 
from a sneer. 

Cerise looked over quickly, a responsive color glowing 
in her face ; but the eyes of the woman, steely and glit- 
tering, made a feint of laughter. 


INTO PORT, 


263 

‘‘I never pretended to understand your insinuations, 
Aurelia, not even in our school-days when I had daily 
opportunities of studying them. I meant only what I said. 
I think you understood me, my dear,*’ to Agnes, whose 
bright lips were curling in irrepressible scorn, Illness 
unfits both body and mind for the functions they are 
called upon to perform ; but life, the inexorable, requires 
a stern compliance nevertheless. If to render it, some 
selfish inclinations are sacrificed, what wonder?” 

Aurelia did not lose the radiance of Colonel Court- 
landt’s smile, as he paused in his conversation with the 
two other gentlemen long enough to catch the last words 
of Cerise. She had set herself as a spy upon these two, 
and every innocent word, every glance of purest feeling, 
was treasured by her as thunder-bolts against the day of 
her wrath. 

Philip, whose idol was this pale-faced, sad-eyed 
woman ; Philip, who had passed her by with her pas- 
sionate love, for this other, whose heart was another’s 
even when she gave herself to him; Philip had not 
wanted her love, but one day he should need her pity ! 

Cecil,” whispered Agnes, as he kissed her good-night 
before her chamber-door, ‘‘when are we going home?” 

“ Day after to-morrow, Joujou. Our friend requested 
that we should stay until after the open-air fete.” 

And you will certainly go then, Cecil, — not to the St. 
Nicholas, but home, down by Pontchartrain, — to our old 
rambling cottage, where mamma’s grave is?” 

“Yes, if you desire it; but remember, Joujou, if I go, 
it will be for good.” 

“ I shall like that, Cecil. I think Mrs. Hale was right, 
“there is no rest in the gay world; and you will never 
be better here.” 


264 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE. 


He kissed her again. Very well, Joujou ; then we 
will go home for good day after to-morrow. Good-night. ^ * 

The next day brought an unforeseen calamity upon 
them all in the shape of Mrs. Hale’s illness. Philip was 
at his wit’s end. The guests were invited, the arrange- 
ments perfected, the house filled with an expectant bevy 
of visitors, and Cerise unable to raise her head from the 
pillow. Was ever circumstance so unfortunate 1 There 
was no doubt of it. Cherry was ill, — alarmingly so, Philip 
feared, though she sought to relieve his anxiety by assur- 
ing him that a few hours’ rest would restore her. She 
was hot and cold by turns, her eyes were hollow and 
vacant, and ominous spots of crimson color were burning 
fitfully in her cheeks. Lilias and Agnes hovered around 
her bed solicitously all the morning, until at last awaking 
from a lethargic slumber, she bade them leave her to rest 
and quiet, with a special injunction to keep Fanfarron- 
nade down-stairs. So old Mrs. Hale took her post by the 
shaded window, and Cerise lay in a feverish dream until 
near evening, when Philip came in cautiously to question 
his mother, and bend over the face on the pillow with 
serious concern on his own. 

‘‘Cherry, we had best send for the doctor, I think; 
you are no better,” he said, arousing her from her sleep. 

“But I am easy, Philip,” she pleaded; “and if you 
will let me rest I will be fairly awake by night.” 

So he yielded as he had done throughout the day, not 
without misgivings as tp the prudence of the delay. 

The shadows were deepening in the avenue paths, old 
Mrs. Hale was napping in her easy-chair, her knitting 
fallen from her fingers, when the door was opened softly 
and a head thrust in, golden and frowzy, — the head of 
Fanfarronnade. 


INTO PORT. 


265 

She took a stealthy survey of the room, then opened 
the door wide enough to admit her entire trim little figure, 
closed it softly behind her, and with an eye on the sleep- 
ing old lady in her arm-chair by the window advanced on 
tiptoe to the bedside. 

‘‘Cherry, Cherry,” she whispered cautiously in the 
invalid’s ear. 

Cerise opened her eyes dreamily. 

“Oh, Fan,” she murmured, “ I told them not to let 
you in.” 

“ I will be very quiet. Cherry,” responded Fan, meekly. 
“Won’t you wake up, please? I have something to ask 
you. Oh, please try to wake up!” for Cherry was fast 
lapsing into a semi-somnolent state again. 

The entreaty in her friend’s voice aroused her. She 
sighed deeply. 

“I don’t believe I can. Fan ; I have been sleeping all 
day. What do you want ? There is nothing I can do for 
you, I am sure,” wearily. 

“ Oh, but there is. Cherry I” said Fan, so earnestly that 
tears came to her eyes. “You can make an effort to 
awake and come down to-night. I don’t know what I 
shall do if you cannot.” 

“ I would like to, if I could ; but my not coming can 
make no possible difference to you, Fanfarronnade. Philip 
has promised me that everything shall go on as though I 
were there ; you have only to forget me and enjoy your- 
self. I am not really suffering. I could sleep and rest 
if you would all let me. Is it late ?’ ’ 

“ Six o’clock. Won’t you sit up for a moment and 
see how it feels?” 

“ How persistent you are, Fanfarronnade ! I will try 
to please you.” 

But Cherry turned very white when the experiment 
M 23 


266 


FOR HONOR'S SANE. 


was made, and Fan was glad to lay her back on the 
pillows. 

‘‘Oh, Cherry!’' sobbed Fan, both hands to her face; 
“I see nothing for me to do but to tell you. Cherry, 
Cherry ! won’t you be able to come down? I — I am to 
be married to-night 

“Married I Fanfarronnade 1” 

Bolt upright was Cherry now, regarding the blushing 
face with wonder and incredulity. “To Mr. Lindsay?” 
she asked, breathlessly. 

Fan bowed her head on the counterpane and kept it 
there. 

“ Oh, Fan, \kvdX you should have caught such a prize 1” 

Fan lifted her head, poising it defiantly. 

“And is it nothing for him to have won me? I have 
not gone begging all my life I” 

Cherry fell white and weak upon the pillows. 

“You foolish child ! I would never have dreamed of 
such a thing as grave, reticent Mr. Lindsay’s falling in 
love with you, — your pranks, your dash and style I But 
you are every way worthy of him, my dear little bluster ; 
I know that if all the world does not.” 

Then the two were locked for an instant in each other’s 
arms, both of them true women, each in her different 
way. 

“ No one knows it, not a soul, except Lilias and Phil ; 
I don’t intend that they shall. You know. Cherry, we 
have been practising a wedding pantomime ” 

“ Why, Fan, you must have suffered in the rehearsal,” 
interrupted Cherry. 

“No; it was not until last evening that the Dominie 
proposed it. It rather surprised me I will admit ; besides, 

I did not know how my friends would regard such an 
escapade. Well, you know I don’t parley much, it is not 


INTO PORT 


267 

in my nature ; one or two considerations induced me to 
say yes. He is going on a lecturing tour in a few weeks, 
and I thought it would be nice, by way of variety, to go 
with him.*^ 

Miss Fan tossed her head with her old moquer careless- 
ness; she did not choose to make any further concessions 
to the requirements of the occasion. 

Fan, go down and have me some strong tea sent up. 
I think I shall venture out of bed.^* 

Oh, what a pity I told you 

No, without this excitement I would doubtless have 
slept on. Go now, there is no time to lose. And, Fan,** 
holding out a tremulous hand, my dearest friend, I re- 
joice in your happiness. You are happy?** 

‘‘Yes.** And Fan stooped to kiss her friend with tears 
in her blue eyes. “It is, as you say, a freak, but one 
that I am not likely to regret.** 

Philip was surprised and delighted when he came in 
and found his wife in his mother*s easy-chair, while that 
good old lady busied herself in laying out the requisite 
articles for Cherry* s toilet. But he was shocked at the 
ravages her day*s illness had made in her countenance. 

“ After all, I doubt if this be prudent, Cherry ; you 
look far from being strong enough to endure to-night*s 
noise and excitement,** he said. 

“ Oh, I shall be better when I get into the fresh mr. 
You know I have often been sick all day and entertained 
your friends all night, — nearly. There, sir, don*t look 
so closely at my face, it is not flattering ; it is an older 
face every day and will not bear such ruthless inspection. 
Wait until I am dressed, then you may look at me and 
find fault if you dare.** 

But the process of dressing was a weary one indeed. 
Some drops from Mamma Hale*s own closet, with a pow- 


268 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


erful pungent odor, lent artificial strength to her trembling 
limbs, and they were resorted to again and again before 
she was ready to face the crowd below-stairs. 

The grounds and their ornamentations were a success. 
Cerise scarcely knew the avenue and the arch-covered 
pathway that led to the pavilion in the wood ; it was so 
brilliant and fairy-like, by the aid of colored lanterns 
and flowers, that she seemed more than ever walking in a 
dream. 

Every one had some word of welcome for her, or con- 
gratulation upon her recovery, — only a few ventured to 
remark how dreadfully ill Mrs. Hale was looking. Agnes, 
walking with Jock down one of the enchanting, flower- 
strewn alleys, forgetting for a moment, under the pleas- 
antries of handsome Jock’s conversation, the nameless 
pain at her heart, started visibly when she came face to 
face with her hostess in a turn of the path. 

‘‘ Oh, she looks so ill, — and so beautiful,” said the 
girl, clasping both slight hands in her fervored speech 

Don’t you see she is too sick to be out of bed ? Some- 
body has persuaded her out, and she sacrifices herself for 
her friends. She looks like the woman on the phantom 
ship that passed the Ancient Mariner, with her red lips 
and her face ‘as white as leprosy.’ ” 

In the pavilion. Fan came up to Cherry, dressed in 
filmy white, with a spray of orange blossoms in her hair. 

“Cherry,” she asked, nervously, “what do you think 
of our arrangements ? does the stage please you ? are the 
trimmings in good taste?” 

“ It is all beautiful. Fan, a Fata Morgana sort of a 
place; I don’t know it at all, I seem to have lost my 
latitude.” 

“I have* come to thank you ” 

It was Mr. Lindsay’s grave voice at her shoulder. 


INTO PORT. 


269 


‘‘ To thank me ! For what, Mr. Lindsay?’’ 

‘‘ For everything, dear lady, most of all for your friend. 
You give her to me willingly, do you not?” 

‘‘/give Fan Farronnade away ?” she answered, play- 
fully. “ Not my part of her, Mr. Lindsay. Fan, is your 
papa here to-night ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; he does not care what becomes of me,” 
flippantly, “so long as he is sure of Jock; and you know 
Jock is not likely to leave him.” 

“ Speak for yourself, young lady,” cried the person in 
question, who, with Agnes on his arm, came forward to 
pay his devoirs to his hostess. 

Whereat Fan, reddening unusually, turned away with 
her lover, so soon to be her husband. 

Jock could never find much to say to Mrs. Hale ; to- 
night he said less than ever. They stood there quietly, 
while the gayly-dressed people laughed and chatted and 
eyed the stage expectantly ; she abstracted and silent, 
with a meaningless smile on her lips, a vacant, weary 
gaze in her eyes. More than one thought she looked 
like a sleep-walker. The buzz of talk ceased ; the stage 
curtain was rising. The pantomime of a wedding, with 
Fan for the bride, leaning on Mr. Lindsay’s arm, her face 
beneath the veil rosy with blushes, and a shy, startled 
glance that swept over the gay throngs on the pavilion 
seats. 

Well, how to the life it was, even to the blushes of the 
bride ! And now the attendant bridesmaid and grooms- 
man step into the places of the receding couple, and the 
ceremony is repeated. Cerise feels her heart give a 
suflbcating bound, for this time the bride is Lilias, and 
there — unless she be dreaming — stands her father, who 
has just given her away to Willie Craighton. On the 
stage she clasps Lilias’s hand agonizingly. 


270 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


‘‘ Fan was married I know, but you — yours was a 
farce I” 

Lilias’s face blazed with color. 

‘‘ Did Fan turn traitor? It was a surprise we planned 
for you. Papa approved, so did brother Philip. You 
are not angry. Cherry?’* 

No j but I am scarcely strong enough for such a sur- 
prise to-night. Papa,” with a little cry of delight, hold- 
ing her face up to be kissed, ^‘did they smuggle you 
here for this ? You should not have let them cheat me 
so. Ah, Willie, you have treated me badly all through ! 
You are headstrong and tyrannical, as you were when a 
boy.” 

‘‘Forgive me. Cherry!” pleaded the handsome fellow. 
“I could not go back to the South without her, and 
I was not willing to wait for that endless preliminary 
arrangement you women call a trousseau.” He bent and 
kissed her for the first time since his early boyhood on 
her lips. 

The news spread like wildfire through the gay crowd 
below, so that exclamations and whispered comments and 
congratulations became the order of the night. Cerise 
wandered down into the heart of the crowd, feeling sud- 
denly faint and weak. “ I must have more of Mamma 
Hale’s medicine,” she thought, “or I shall never be 
able to stand it.” 

Colonel Courtlandt, standing near the door, came to 
her side. 

“ Can I be of service, Mrs. Hale?” he asked, for her 
eyes were wandering, as though in quest of some one. 

“I was looking for Philip. I am sicker than I thought.” 

“He is lost in this swaying multitude; let me do for 
you what he would if he were here.” 

“No, thanks; I only want to go to the house, and, if 


INTO PORT 


271 


I am not back soon, will you tell Philip, please, that I 
was not able to stay? Tell him, also, not to be uneasy, 
that I shall go to mamma’s room, and she will take care 
of me. There,” sighing, with a faint smile, have 
commissioned you with a long message.” 

‘‘But you will first let me see you in safety to the 
house.” 

She waved him back. 

“ There is no need of that. Go back and enjoy your- 
self with the rest.” 

He smiled mournfully, turning to obey her. 

“ ‘Go back and enjoy myself!’ ” he echoed, passion- 
ately. “It is no place for me, where all are happy. And 
yet,” the old smile of singular purity flooding his face, 
“ why should I care? I asked no reward for my life?” 

“ The best reward we may hope for in this life is the 
consciousness of having done our duty,” she said, gravely, 
a gentle reproof in her voice. “ Have you outlived your 
old trust ? I remember, years back, you said you could 
rest satisfied with the clue in God’s hand.” 

“The labyrinth has been longer and darker than I 
dreamed it. You are braver than I. Good-night. God 
bless you I” 

She laid her hand in his a moment, looking up into his 
eyes, that were strangely wan and faded. 

In the heart of the careless, pleasure-loving crowd they 
two were betraying to each other, unconsciously, the utter 
insufficiency of worldly pleasures to satisfy the demands 
of their souls. Little recked she, as she left him, hurry- 
ing away from the faint, sweet odor of the flowers and 
the mocking strains of the music, how next she should see 
him, nor how the dreariness of his last words were to 
echo through the chambers of her brain forever. 

Courtlandt stood for a long time where she had left 


272 


FOR HONORIS SAKE. 


him. Behind a pillar near, wreathed with flowering vines, 
eyes pitiless as Ate^s were taking note of every changeful 
expression of his face and drawing fresh evidence there- 
from of the fact with which she meant to regale her cousin 
to-night. 

To-night, at the very zenith of his pride and happiness, 
Philip should taste a little of what she had endured years 
back. And for the haughty woman who had not cared to 
veil her scorn all these years, no abasement could be too 
utter, no humiliation too deep. 

The great house was lonely and still when Mrs. Hale 
entered it and mounted the stairs slowly to her chamber. 
A mulatto girl, her own maid, slept with her head on the 
dressing-room table and her elbow in dangerous proximity 
to the lamp. Mrs. Hale learned from her that Philipps 
mother had retired to her own room, in the west wing, 
some hours since ^ so, fearing to disturb her, she bade the 
girl hand her the bottle from the bureau where the old lady 
had left it, and, pouring out a spoonful, she drank it down. 

^‘Now I shall be better presently,*' she murmured, 
leaning back in her great chair and pulling the dahlia- 
colored folds of her evening wrap about her. She was 
better soon, better, though half asleep. Her limbs were 
light and free, the giddy sickness gone, — true, the girl’s 
voice in answer to some command she gave sounded far 
off and confused, the lamp seemed shining through a mist, 
but she was better and she was going back. 

Down in the pavilion no one had missed her, though 
she had been absent at least an hour. The two brides 
were the reigning belles; little Agnes with Jock for a 
partner was dancing airily as a fairy sprite ; the music 
came in swift, faint gushes, the dancers flitted by like the 
shadow forms of a dream. There was nothing for her to 
do but nod and smile, and she did it in a mechanical way 


INTO PORT. 


273 


until she felt as though she were an automaton capable of 
but two expressions. They all looked so happy : Lilias, 
with that sweet tremor of eye and lip ; Fan, with an un- 
wonted flush on her piquante face ; Aurelia, too, leaning 
on Philip’s arm, — the basilisk gleam lost from her eyes. 
Everybody but her ! 

Well, that did not matter. There was no particular, 
urgent need of happiness in this world ; it was not the 
happy people who always did their duty best. Still, she 
had no place here to-night ; nothing in common with the 
gay, smiling people around her. She folded her shawl 
around her shoulders, still bowing and smiling into the 
familiar faces that passed her, and went again out into the 
wood, down the lamp-lit bowery paths in a radiance 
bright as noonday ; walked on and on until the glare 
and gayety were far behind her, until she reached a bosky 
nook between immense old oaks, where the stars looked 
down serenely between the thick branches and the dews 
were dank and cold. And now, thank heaven, there was 
no further need of automatic bows and smiles, the world 
was' away, her eyes were heavy, and she might sleep if 
she cared to. She slept long, the cold, wet grasses cool- 
ing her burning forehead, no feverish phantoms breaking 
in upon her dreams. And when at last she awoke she 
covered her eyes in vague affright. Had the Dies Irae 
dawned while she lay sleeping ! 

The heavens were ruddy with flaming light ; columns 
of smoky clouds crimson-breasted hurried athwart the 
skies, the western horizon was a sheet of golden flame. 
Oh, God ! were the angels behind that fiery screen, and 
the heaven of peace in which she should find rest ? 

Confused sounds fell upon her ear, faint cries and wails, 
and above all, a roaring, crackling noise as of a world 
on fire. Lapping tongues of flame broke out from the 

M* 


274 


FOR HONORIS SAFE. 


clouds now and then, meteor-like sparks that flew and fell 
near her, and the faint, sickening odor of burning timber. 

She was fairly awake now, and a new light was dawn- 
ing upon her bewildered brain. Was she sitting here in 
safety while the Judgment had dawned for others? 

She started up with a face like death, flying like a 
hunted thing through the familiar paths and windings, 
on past the pavilion, while the crackling noises grew 
louder, the dense clouds thicker, the wails and cries re- 
solved into human voices. One more turn and, with 
eyes dilating with horror and the ghastliness of death on 
her face, she stood before what a few hours ago was 
Hampden Hill, — a stately pile, filled with the luxuries 
of wealth and cultivation, — blazing now like the funereal- 
pile of some old-world monarch ! 

At sight of her standing there with the dahlia-colored 
shawl falling from her shoulders, the damp earth-mould 
clinging to the rich fabric of her graceful evening 
toilet, a wild, incredulous shout arose, and she was sur- 
rounded immediately by a breathless crowd eager to lay 
hold of her and persuade themselves that she stood 
there, — in the flesh, — for her face was so white they 
might reasonably, in their wild excitement, have taken 
her for something supernatural. 

There arose a triumphant cry from many voices, guests 
and servants commingled : 

Mrs. Hale is here ! Philip ! Courtlandt ! Mr. Hale ! 
colonel ! we have her here safe ! ’ * 

And the cry was reiterated breathlessly. 

‘‘Mas’r Philip, for God’s sake!” shouted an old 
white-haired servant who had waited in the dining-room 
of Philip’s grandfather. ‘‘ Come down; v/e’re got her; 
bress de Lord I” 

There came a cry from the midst of flame and crashing 


INTO PORT. 


275 

timbers, and for one instant Philip appeared, black and 
bleeding, in a window of the second story. 

A ladder !” he shouted, hoarsely, and left the window 
clear. 

Cerise stood like one petrified with that frozen look of 
horror on her face, while brave men placed the ladder 
and held it dauntlessly amid smoke and flame and falling 
timbers. It seemed an age until Philip reappeared bear- 
ing in his arms a human body, the head hanging across 
his shoulder, the hands falling limp on either side. 

The woman for whom those two men had braved death 
in its most terrible form clasped her hands at that sight 
with a gesture of intolerable anguish, and for the first 
time a cry escaped her, — a cry so shrill and piercing that 
the man hanging over Philip’s shoulder opened his burnt, 
blackened lips and moaned. 

It was a slow and painful journey for Philip ; with each 
grasp of his blistered, bleeding hands he could have 
shrieked aloud in sheer physical anguish. 

At last ! Not a moment too soon, for the wood-work 
of the window against which the ladder had leaned gave 
in with a crash, several feet of mortar, brick, and rubbish 
caving in with it. Philip shuddered as he gave his burden 
into the arms of Lindsay and Craighton, who bore it 
tenderly away. Then he turned to his wife, not caring to 
restrain his emotion at sight of her. 

‘‘My own, my wife!” drawing her to his heart in a 
passionate embrace. 

She kissed the poor hands he held out to her, but her 
lips were dumb. 

“Where have you been, dearest? What merciful 
Providence led you away ? Courtlandt told me you 
were too sick to stay ; we knew nothing until the light 
of the fire surprised us. Mother, from having been in 


FOR HONORS SAKE, 


276 

the west wing, is saved. We sought you there, but she 
told us you had not been there ; then we supposed you 
were in your own room. Courtlandt followed me, — he 
has avoided no peril to find you. Cerise,’^ gravely, with 
tears in his brave eyes, ‘‘ I fear he has given his life in his 
effort to save you. The smoke brought on a hemorrhage, 
and he is pitiably burnt. 

‘^And here I stand safe!’* she cried, wildly. Oh, 
Philip, where is God’s justice?” 

It was the first time she had spoken. 

‘‘ Hush, my love, you are insane ! God led you some- 
where out of this awful death by fire. Was Angy in your 
room when you left?” 

Yes.” 

She is lost ! I found her strangled by the smoke, but 
I had no time, in my mad search for you, to see which 
one of the servants it was.” ^ 

‘‘Where have they taken him, Philip?” she asked, 
huskily. 

“You cannot see him, dearest, — not now. You need 
rest and sleep. You must not I” 

“ But he may die now, in a little while, and I shall 

not have told him Philip, let me go, — I will be 

quiet, and do no harm 1 Do you suppose I cannot endure 

the sight of his suffering when ” She broke from his 

detaining hand. 

Lilias and Fan came hurrying toward them. Fan 
caught her friend in her arms with a wild sob. “Oh, 
that our fete should have ended thus I” she cried; but 
Lilias, who had just come from where Courtlandt lay 
dying, had no tears with which to welcome her sister 
back from death. 

“Where have they taken him, Lilias?” Cerise asked, 
clutching her arm with unconscious strength. 


INTO PORT, 


277 


To the pavilion, Cherry.’^ 

‘‘Keep them back, Lilias.’^ And she was gone. 

“ No, brother Philip, do not follow her ; let her thank 
him in her own way for the gift of his life.” The sweet 
blue eyes were flooded with fast-falling tears. 

Nearing the pavilion. Cerise heard low moans and the 
sound of a woman weeping. Her strength forsook her 
for a moment, though her countenance was susceptible of 
no additional shade of horror. Agnes lifted her face from 
her hands when Mrs. Hale entered. There was no need 
of that mute entreaty in the agonized eyes. 

Cerise walked very quietly to where he lay stretched 
on a pallet beneath the arching evergreens that his own 
hands had helped to arrange. His brow was black and 
blistered, his lips bleeding and burnt, — and his hands ! 
Cerise wrung her own at sight of them mutely, with a 
stifled sob in lieu of the despairing cry she could have 
uttered. He opened his eyes and saw her there; a divine 
pity came into them ; the burnt lips murmured : 

“ My poor friend 1 You should not have come to 
me.” 

“Not come to you, when you have given your life for 
me!” The cry rang out despairingly, filled with the 
agony of an impotent remorse. “And you sacrificed it 
needlessly, for I am here safe, while you ” 

“ Hush 1 ‘the brave man has to give his life away,* ** 
he quoted, all the latent grandeur of his soul flooding the 
suffering features. 

“ Cerise, — I have come — to the end of it — the clue. 
You know how dark and long it has been. — Joujou^ — do 
not grieve for me. — You will not let her. Cherry ? — you 
will keep her — and console her?’* Another gush of the 
life-blood from those blackened lips, a stifled shriek from 

the stricken girl at his side ; but Cherry’s hand is wiping 

24 


FOR HONOR'S SAKE, 


278 

the blood-drops from his mouth, Cherry’s tender arm is 
under his head, the dear, gentle voice in his ear. 

‘‘Cecil,” it whispered, “forgive me. I have given 
you naught but misery and trouble, while you” — the low 
tones faltering — “ you have given me all, I meant but to 
do my duty, believe me.” 

“I know it,” came the answer, in weak, spent tones. 
“You have — always — been braver — than — I. — -There is 
nothing — to forgive. — Joujou — darling — good-by. — The 
clue is in God’s hand — Cherry.” 

She thought the light had died forever out of his eyes, 
but once more the old smile leaped into them sweet and 
serene as of yore. She bent her head to catch his dying 
whisper. 

“ Follow — it patiently — to — the — end.” 

When Philip came in at last with the doctor, who had 
been hurriedly summoned, he was shocked at the scene ^ 
that presented itself to his view. 

There knelt his wife with her arm under Courtlandt’s 
head, a light like triumph in her eyes, while Agnes was 
vainly chaffing the cold hands, and weeping with low, 
bitter sobs. 

“It is too late, Philip!” cried Cherry, as the doctor 
looked down upon the dead face with that shadowy, sweet 
smile stamped upon it. 

“It is too late, he has found the clue I” 

Then she fell back swooning in her husband’s arms. 


CONCLUSION. 


THE END OF IT ALL 

Lilias did not go to the South with Willie Craighton, 
nor Fan on the lecturing tour with the tutor, for Philip’s 
wife lay so ill that they feared every hour might be her 
last. She lay in the remote wing that had been occupied 
by Philip’s mother, the sole part of the stately building 
that had been saved from the ravages of the fire. It was 
nine days since she had fallen in a swoon by the dead 
body of the man whose whole life had been a willing 
sacrifice to her. Nine days in which the great anguished 
eyes had known no rest from roaming, in which the lips 
had uttered no sound. 

A strange, weird illness it was ; her friends were driven 
almost to the verge of insanity by the dumb pleading of 
that still, white face. 

And did she die ? No. After long weeks she came 
back to life again, — emaciated and hollow-eyed, the very 
wraith of the woman she once had been. Her first words 
had been those of submission. 

My life shall not be barren while it is of use to you, 
dear,” — to Philip, her husband; and to Agnes weeping 
for the loss of her brother, seeing no beauty in the sun- 
light, naught but desolation in the broad earth, she had 
whispered, — 

‘‘ Together we will follow the clue, until, like him, we 
go to our reward beyond the stars.” 

Hampden Hill was rebuilt in time, but the gayety and 
splendor were never renewed. 

279 


28 o 


FOR HONORIS SAKE, 


As for Philip, he was only too thankful that his darling 
had been saved, first from fire and then from death, to 
ever wish it otherwise ; and though her dear eyes were 
tired and hollow always now, her step weak and slow, 
she was still the gentle, uncomplaining wife, the light and 
blessing of his home. 

Papa Hilton lived on at lonely Thornmere awaiting the 
time when Alice and Waring, the younglings of his flock, 
should bring back the departed light and gayety of youth 
into its halls. Aunt Hepsey kept things scrupuously neat 
for him, and ruled the servants to her heart's content, — 
nobody else minded her nowadays, not even Prince, who 
often, in spite of her sly lunges and kicks, found his way 
to the comfortable glow of the hearth beside his master's 
chair. Lilias went off to the balmy Southern land, where 
she made her gentle influence felt outside of the luxurious 
home to which her boy-husband had taken her. Fan 
accompanied the lecturer in all his tours, finding much 
amusement in the comments they elicited from the public. 
Fearless in speech and exquisite in appurtenances as ever, 
she often made an odd contrast to the dignified, awkward 
tutor, who nevertheless was inordinately proud of the 
pretty little butterfly on his arm. 

Despite Jock's assertion to the contrary, he did begin 
to brush his coat o' mornings. Of course you know for 
whom, and sad little Agnes found the desert of her life 
considerably brightened by the knowledge that she was to 
walk therein, guided by Jock's unfailing arm. 

Jock never knew how it happened ; he would have told 
you if you had asked him that it was because she loved 
Cherry so fondly, and was so unselfish in her loving min- 
isterings unto her. But it would be doing Agnes a rank 
injustice to leave you under the impression that it was not 
for her own sweet sake Jock loved her. 


« THE END OF ALL r 


281 


The beautiful womanly girl whom Jock had known in 
the old days as Cerise Hilton had filled his ideal of 
womanhood; he never would meet a vision like that 
again. But she was dead, and this pale, self-contained 
woman of to-day did not stand in the way of his taking 
Agnes, the lonely child, to his heart and cherishing her 
fondly there. 

Aurelia Doyle, her scheme thwarted by the fateful end- 
ing of the pavilion masquerade, vanished from the horizon 
of Hampden Hill, and married an elegible parti before 
the year was out. 

Out in a lonely corner of Greenwood stands a broken 
shaft surmounted by a carved wreath of immortelles. 
Over the short turf of the grave evergreens and immor- 
telles clasp tendrils lovingly. A woman planted them 
there one day, murmuring, brokenly, — 

But for the grave make wreaths of immortelles and 
evergreens. Emblems of peace and rest should hang on 
the gravestone.^* 

Beneath the marble wreath stands cut in the white stone : 

Cecil Courtlandt. 

“ He gave his life away like a royal heart.” 

And the white-faced, weary-eyed woman moves slowly 
away, comforted by the thought of a future that will 
rectify all mistakes of the past. 


FINIS. 


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ficial career.” — London Atketiceuni. 

“ A book in which we have found 


more to praise and less to blame than 
in any poetical work of imagination 
that has fallen under our notice for 
some time.” — Lord Macaulay, in the 
Edinburgh Review. 


Hubert Freeth's Prosperity, A Story, By Mrs, 


Newton Crosland, author of “Lydia,” “Hildred, the 
Daughter,” “The Diamond Wedding,” etc. i2mo. Fine 


cloth, black and gilt ornamentation. ^1.75. 


It is a carefully executed composi- 
tion, and as such will be sure to com- 
mend itself to those epicures who like 
to enjoy their novel like their wine, 
leisurely, holding it up to the light 
from time to time, that they may see 


the rich color and mark the clear depth 
through the crystal. A high, healthy 
tone of moral teaching runs all through 
this book, and the story gains upon us 
as we continue it.” — Lotidon 'limes. 


Under Lock and Key, A Story, By T, W, Speight, 

author of “Brought to Light,” “Foolish Margaret,” etc. 


l2mo. Fine cloth. ^1.75. 

“ To all who are fond of exciting 
situations, mystery, and ingeniously 
constructed plots, we unhesitatingly 
recommend this work. The charac- 


ters are strongly drawn and individu- 
alized, the style is good, and the in- 
terest absorbing and unfl igging from 
beginning to end.” -Boston Glob*. 


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